


Line Ball, Love Game

by Beckirs



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sports, Australian Open 2018, Modern Era, New Adult, Sports, Television, The Championships Wimbledon, Wimbledon 2018, low angst, minimal angst, no melodrama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-11-08 23:22:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20843729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckirs/pseuds/Beckirs
Summary: Elizabeth Bennet is a television producer assigned to the Australian summer of tennis.  William Darcy is Great Britain’s number one ranked male player, and Elizabeth is not well impressed to deal with him or his many team members.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> General notes: This is a tennis story, but no knowledge of tennis is necessary. I started this in 2018 before life got in the way, and haven’t changed the timeline.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta Rosie J for her guidance, shine and polish, and to Skydreamer for her early beta work. 
> 
> At the time of writing, any Instagram handles used were fictitious. There is no Channel Four commercial television station in Australia, although Australian readers (or those familiar with Australian television) will probably see what I've done.
> 
> Tennis notes: Tournaments are often named after the major sponsor but I’ve avoided this in favour of the traditional tournament names. For instance, in 2018 the Kooyong Classic was called the ‘Priceline Pharmacy Kooyong Classic’, and the Indian Wells Masters was called the ‘BNP Paribas Open’. 
> 
> Darcy is not based on any actual player. His playing schedule and career trajectory are plausible if not based in fact.

**Chapter One**

_30 December 2017 - pre-tournament meeting  
The Brisbane International, Brisbane_

Catherine Bourke, or Chatty Cathy as she was sometimes called in whispered tones, stood at the front of the room, pontificating laboriously on her expectations for the tournament. Her demeanour was that of a woman in charge, and indeed, no one could argue with the authority of the Tennis Australia CEO – even the tournament director.

To Bill Collins, she was majestic. Imperial. The essence of all that was great about the government and management of the sport.

To Elizabeth Bennet, she was laying it on a touch thick.

Nevertheless, Elizabeth had her assignment: producer for one of the broadcast partners for the Australian tennis season. Just how Bill landed an executive job with Tennis Australia, after having fumbled his way through at Channel Four beside Elizabeth and Charlotte, was confounding. Why _him?_ Charlotte was more senior than Bill, and she was streets ahead in experience and talent. Why hadn’t TA poached her?

_It’s who you know, not what you know,_ Elizabeth reminded herself. If only she’d buddied up with the executive producers, she could have been in Perth preparing for the Hopman Cup gig and exploring a city she’d never seen. _Federer _was at the Hopman Cup. _Federer!_

As it was, she was at the Brisbane International. Her hometown tournament. With Bill Collins lording his good fortune over his former colleagues, the smug git.

‘And a final reminder to you all that William Darcy is the marquee player at this year’s tournament. The headliner. He and his team are to be afforded every courtesy, and every request shall be met. There shall be no cause for complaint from him, and before Channel Four asks, you are permitted one promotional interview with him. Questions for courtside interviews must be approved by me first.’

Elizabeth frowned. She didn’t know why William Darcy was the ‘marquee player’: he wasn’t the top seed or even the most popular player booked to play. She knew that he was considered an outside chance for the Open, ranked twenty-first in the world and yet to start his comeback after a six month lay off. He was a real unknown lately, so viewers wanted to hear from him. And there was the comeback kid angle she’d work if she got to interview him … but to issue such an edict for only one player?

‘We typically have less than three minutes from when a match ends, to the interview. Will you be available after every match he wins, if he wins, to ensure the viewers get questions relevant to the match?’

Collins gulped. Catherine Bourke merely pursed her lips before speaking as if a direct question hadn’t been posed to her. ‘As I was saying …’ 

* * *

_30 December 2017 - players’ party  
Brisbane International, Brisbane_

How _dared _he?

Of all the baseless, false, and humiliating things he could have said, he accused her of sleeping her way into the job.

‘I’m always suspicious of the ones who laugh and smile their way through work. What was she, again? Producer, or production assistant? I wouldn’t have thought her to be a producer just looking at her – I wonder how long she’s been in the job.’

His off-sider smirked, and eyed the room critically. ‘I know this is Catherine’s pet project, turning this event into something worthy of attending, but perhaps you should speak with her about the standard of the broadcast employees. Surely she has some say with the network. The staff should fill in a questionnaire before they start: what are your qualifications, and were your prospects enhanced by bed hopping?’

They were soon joined by a man with boundless enthusiasm. He looked to be having the time of his life. He rubbed his hands together and bounced on the balls of his feet. ‘Another year, just started! Time for a new beginning, eh Darcy?’

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Charlie, please. Save your enthusiasm for Melbourne. You know Darcy is only here because he has to be, or he’d be penalised.’

‘It’s still a good field,’ this Charlie persisted. If it weren’t for the conversation she’d just overheard, and the sound of her own brain exploding in her head, Elizabeth might have been swayed by his relentless optimism. ‘We should take this as seriously as the Masters, Carrie.’

‘Look around you, Charles. We’re surrounded by try-hards and has-beens. The only decent thing here is the champagne, and that has to be Catherine’s doing.’

How rich, coming from Team Darcy! He was the biggest try-hard in the room, and by the end of the summer, they would know if he was the greatest flop in recent history.

She wished it was the latter. That would serve the arrogant arse right!

‘Dearest Charlotte, shall I relate to you the _fascinating _conversation I just overheard?’

‘Judging by that gleam in your eye, I’m going to hear about it one way or another.’

Elizabeth smiled. By the time she finished relaying her version of the conversation, she and Charlotte were laughing. 

‘When my brightest star commands an audience, I know there’s a story afoot. Care to let me in on the secret?’ Eddie Gardiner, executive producer and Elizabeth’s favourite boss, listened intently and responded with humour and incredulity in all the right places. 

Mollified, and satisfied that she had the sympathetic ear of her boss and colleagues, Elizabeth avoided Team Darcy for the rest of the night. She even indulged in a sneaky glass of champagne, once the official part of the evening was over.

* * *

_8 January 2018 - media day  
Kooyong Classic, Melbourne_

Elizabeth was revising the scripts for the day’s promos and running her eye over questions for the interview with William Darcy. Her phone was constantly buzzing, her executive producer had come down gastro at the worst possible time, and there was not enough caffeine in the whole of coffee-drenched Melbourne to help her frazzled nerves fire. With her phone practically glued to her ear, Elizabeth ran out of the service tunnels of Rod Laver Arena and almost barrelled into Joshua Wickham.

‘You could at least buy me a drink before you run me over,’ he said with a grin and a wink.  
  
Breathless from either the cheeky wink or the run, Elizabeth murmured an apology, her cheeks hot. Wickham hitched his racquet bag higher on his shoulder and kept walking in the direction of the practice courts. He was in Melbourne early for the qualifiers, she knew.  
  
Elizabeth let out a long breath and kept going, firing off instructions to the presenters and hoping, _praying_, that she could get over to Kooyong in time for the interview with William Darcy. She grumbled about Chatty Cathy’s interference or - as Eddie Gardiner had phrased it - her polite demand that Darcy be featured in a segment for the Kooyong Classic. This sort of treatment was usually reserved for Australian players, or the Big Four. Darcy was neither Australian nor a member of the Big Four. 

Elizabeth just hoped they’d be able to rehash some of it for the Australian Open.

No such luck. Thirty minutes late, William Darcy was boorish and boring. The man refused to talk of anything remotely interesting or substantial. He recycled his responses from other interviews. There were a few moments when Elizabeth dared to hope he would talk about his preparations, his team, his goals, but Carrie would redirect the interview back to her approved script. 

_I’m so bloody glad I hauled ass to get here just for this_, Elizabeth thought darkly_._

Irritated, and determined not to cry from sheer frustration, Elizabeth offered an alternative. ‘We might take a quick break from the questions. Could we get some footage of Darcy on the court?’

The planned three-minute segment on Darcy’s return to the tour and to Kooyong, his chances at taking home a maiden Slam, and his role as a player representative with the ATP, was altered on the run. They could only use a sum total of eighteen seconds of him speaking directly to the camera. 

The rest was filled with a recap on his career to date, and his run to the semi finals in Brisbane. They took some pictures from his Instagram and Twitter feeds, even though they were clearly cultivated by someone on his team – undoubtedly Carrie, the PR and social media micromanager. There wasn’t anything personal, or anything that might appeal to the Australian public. Not a single photo of him hugging a koala, or even trying a Vegemite sandwich. Elizabeth trawled the network’s archives for anything suitable. Thankfully, his fitness coach was willing to be interviewed, and Darcy deigned to be filmed on the practice court.

‘Thank God for Charles Bingley,’ Elizabeth muttered after Team Darcy had left.

* * *

_13 January 2018 - media and promo day  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

Promo day. It had the potential to be fun. All the seeds were scheduled to shuffle through that very door, sit in that very seat, and have those very lights shine down on them as they shot promos for the tournament.

Some seeds were given the bare minimum attention and could be done in a matter of minutes, while others would take up to an hour or more. The likes of Djokovic, Federer, Nadal, Williams (both of them), Kerber, Halep, Pliskova - the title contenders - also did voice overs. Popular players, outside chances, and homegrown talent also got the special treatment. Someone had the bright idea of scheduling first Kyrgios and then Darcy, right after each other.

_Two entitled brats,_ Elizabeth thought. _Line them up! It’s going to be a long day. _

And it was. There was no time for a coffee break, much less a lunch break. 

‘Where are you off to, Elizabeth? We’re nowhere near finished!’ called Charlotte as Elizabeth ducked out of the studio mid-afternoon.

‘I’m going to the little nun’s room, nosey!’

Charlotte had the decency to look apologetic, but still called down the hall, ‘Don’t take too long! Caity Morland talked too much and went over time. And don’t even get me started on this Carrie Bingley sending through a rider for Darcy! Thank god for Elinor Dashwood. Most sensible creature I’ve ever dealt with, although it helped that Edward Ferrars showed up early. They seemed to distract each other, at least until Lucy Steele showed up. Things got a bit frosty then.’

‘Darcy has a rider?’

Charlotte waved away Elizabeth’s comment. ‘It’s nothing much. Collins happened to be around and jumped at the chance to make sure everything was sorted.’

Elizabeth was affronted on behalf of the production team. It may have coloured her approach that afternoon.

She may have been more assertive, more pressing, than she should have been. Then again, the questions could have gone in a different direction if it weren’t for Carrie Bingley’s interference.

‘No personal questions,’ she had said, _ad nauseam._

When everything was set and ready for Darcy’s turn in front of the camera, Carrie stared intently at the feedback. She frequently stopped filming so she could adjust Darcy’s shirt or his hair, or position him to sit at a more flattering angle. She wanted the lighting changed because there was too much shadow over his face. Elizabeth couldn’t contain her disbelief and huffed. He couldn’t have been more lit up if they’d rigged up a stadium spotlight. 

Darcy seemed amused by it all. For a brief moment, she thought Darcy might have broken role and been human: there was the hint of a smile lurking around his eyes. ‘But of course, how I look is more important than what I say.’

Carrie laughed - _laughed, _the _wonders! _‘Let me do my job without you whinging about it.’

‘I would hate to stand in the way of a perfect shot,’ Darcy drawled.

‘The perfect object requires the perfect shot.’

They laughed like it was some old joke between them but Elizabeth was nauseated. It did, however, give her hope that he might be more approachable, but that was dashed seconds later when Mia King resumed her questions.

‘You were one of the hottest players on tour last year. Two titles, the quarter finals in Melbourne and the semis in Miami. Before that, the finals of the Shanghai Masters … you were in _great _form.’ Mia leant forward excitedly. There was no reciprocal enthusiasm from her subject, but Mia continued on, regardless, ‘But then … you pulled out of Queen’s without notice and basically dropped off the radar for six months. What happened?’

Carrie quickly smothered that line of questioning. ‘Darcy won’t be answering any questions about last year’s grass season or the American and Asian swings.’

Mia’s smile dimmed slightly. ‘You parted ways with your long time coach Victor Younge almost six months ago and haven’t replaced him. Do you think you’ll bring on someone new in the future?’

Carrie’s lightheartedness had disappeared. Her voice was curt and clipped as she barked, ‘No personal questions.’

Mia checked her notes, and tried again. ‘Your father was one of the _big _names of the late eighties, alongside the likes of Lendl and Becker. Although he didn’t win any Slams, he was ranked number three in the world at the height of his career and he retired with fifteen titles to his name. You’ve hovered just outside the top ten for a while now and won eight ATP titles so far. Do you feel any pressure to better his record?’

‘No personal questions.’ 

Darcy looked more annoyed than upset about his father being mentioned. Elizabeth slipped Mia a hastily written note.

‘You decided to come to Australia for your lead up to the Open, forgoing your usual stint in the Middle East. Given that your training camp is based in Dubai, why did you pick Australia?’

‘No personal questions!’

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘It wasn’t a personal question,’ she bit out through gritted teeth. ‘It’s directly relevant to his playing.’

‘Move on,’ Carrie replied, not taking her eyes off the feedback. 

‘What are your pre-game rituals?’

‘I can’t imagine how that would be of interest to anyone, Ms King,’ Darcy murmured with a quiet smile.

‘Do you think you’ll start playing doubles again, after what happened with Joshua Wickham?’ Mia’s eyes bulged and she quickly added, ‘I mean, whatever it was that happened.’

‘No personal questions!’

Elizabeth signalled to Mia to wrap up, ready to give it up as a hopeless case, but apparently Mia still had questions.

‘There’s been a lot of focus on the “Frequent Flyers”, a name bestowed by your fitness coach. They travel almost everywhere with you but by your own admission, they all work for you. We don’t see your friends or your girlfriend. Will that ever change, do you think?’

‘No personal -’

‘No, it’s ok. I’ll answer that.’ Darcy finally decided to exert some authority and speak on his own behalf. Elizabeth blinked. ‘The “Frequent Flyers” _are _my friends and one of them also happens to be family. As for a partner, a significant other …’ Darcy paused, and his eyes roved around the room until they landed somewhere over Mia’s shoulder, beside Elizabeth. ‘I would hope that if there was someone in the future, they would come to my big matches and support me, but have no comment to the media.’

How bizarre that the question that was objectively personal was the question Darcy decided to answer. Elizabeth couldn’t fathom it, or him. 

The interview continued on, with Mia making every attempt to drag something - _anything -_ else from the unmoving object in front of her. Her efforts were met with pointed stares and brusque responses.

‘The world is not entitled to know my private affairs. I share what I think is relevant.’

Finally, deflated, Mia made eye contact with Elizabeth and gave a slight shrug. Elizabeth called it, and directed Darcy through to the sound booth where Charlotte was waiting.

* * *

_13 January 2018  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘I’ve just come from a meeting with Collins.’

‘Oh, happy day!’ Elizabeth mock trilled.

Charlotte rolled her eyes. ‘He’s not so bad, if you don’t push back on everything he says.’

‘That level of fool shouldn’t be tolerated anywhere,’ Elizabeth said and put down the practice courts schedule she’d been reviewing. ‘But tell me, what does the star recruit of TA have to say this time?’

‘He gave me _this_,’ Charlotte said, brandishing a stack of papers flagged with post-it notes. ‘It’s an eight page memo on all the things wrong with the promos, how they can be fixed, and guidelines for future segments.’

‘_What?_’ Elizabeth asked, dropping her clip folder to the table with a loud clatter. ‘What’s wrong with what we have?’

‘The memo is from Catherine Bourke. The post-it notes are his contributions. Look, some of it is warranted - don’t give me that look! Objectively speaking, there’s room for improvement. But by and large, it’s ridiculous.’

Elizabeth flipped through the memo. Certain phrases caught her eye. ‘“Lack of engagement.” Well … huh. “Distinct absence of polish.” Oh, please. “And in spite of Channel Four’s commitment to training its junior staff, which ordinarily would be commendable if conducted in an appropriate manner, it is unpardonable to attempt such risky manoeuvres on the eve of the largest event on the Australian tennis calendar.” Heh. I mean, _that’s _cute.’

‘That’s a headache,’ Charlotte moaned. ‘Eddie is pissed off but he isn’t giving much away.’

‘What’s the plan?’

Charlotte flopped into the chair beside Elizabeth and threw her head back, closing her eyes and groaning. ‘Back to the studio to get it right this time.’ 

Charlotte yawned. Elizabeth knew the feeling. There would be time enough to sleep after the Open.

‘So it’s our fault some of the players were awful subjects? We can’t force them to talk or open a vein and pour their hearts out to us.’

Charlotte peered at Elizabeth through a cracked eye. ‘I know where you’re going, and I strongly suggest you stop treating him like the scourge of the earth. Darcy wasn’t the only one who was uncooperative.’

‘He was downright boring.’

‘I don’t blame him. Mia wasn’t on her game, and some of the questions were too much like gossip. Tell me, what did we ask him that he hasn’t been asked a hundred times before?’

‘He didn’t have to be such a dick about it,’ Elizabeth huffed, rolling her eyes. ‘A little professional courtesy wouldn’t go astray.’

Charlotte raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed,’ she said, pointedly.

‘Don’t give me that. You know I didn’t start it.’

‘Yeah? What happened, other than petty slights stemming from an insult to your vanity?’

‘_My vanity?’ _Elizabeth covered her shock quickly. ‘This has nothing to do with me disliking the man which, I might add, is justified and based on an affront to my professionalism _and _my person. It’s very much about Chatty Cathy and her pet stooge coming over the top of us.’

Charlotte gave her a look that said she wasn’t buying it. ‘Catherine has _very generously _arranged for a few players to come back and reshoot. What about a word association game?’ she suggested, changing topics. ‘About other players and the tour. Keep it relevant and for god’s sake, _no gossip! _And do that pretty packaging you’re so fond of, like reel of rapid fire questions.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two  
**

_13 January 2018 - tournament cocktail party  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘Ah, here you are. I’ve been hoping to run into you after our meeting the other day, pardon the pun. I’m Josh Wickham, nice to meet you. Properly, this time.’

‘Elizabeth Bennet, and the pleasure and apology is all mine.’

‘I saw your little clash with Darcy earlier.’

‘I was hoping no one witnessed that particular horror.’

‘Unfortunately not, but you’re a rare one, Elizabeth Bennet. Most people think Darcy is a god amongst men.’

‘Gods are fallible.’

‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘Caipiroska, thanks.’

Joshua Wickham was attractive, appealing, and amusing in dangerous quantities – and he knew it. Elizabeth was charmed, and she knew that he knew it too.

‘I’ve decided I like you already,’ he said. Simply, openly. ‘I get a good feeling about you, Liz.’

Elizabeth glowed. He brought it out in her. He was so easy to speak to; they laughed until she had tears streaming down her cheeks. By her third Caiprioska, she was sharing with him the story of her first meeting with William Darcy.

‘It hurts to hear anyone say anything against him, no matter how in the wrong he is. We were best friends, once upon a time.’

‘So the stories go, yes. He’s not confirming or denying anything.’

‘You’re too good at what you do not to know my history with him. And before you ask, yes, I know why he disappeared last year.’ He paused and frowned, but shook his head and continued on, ‘I’d tell you if it only affected me, but it could hurt his sister if the story got out.’

‘If you want to share, I’ll listen,’ Elizabeth assured him, adding, ‘off the record, of course.’

‘It was all because of Georgiana. I tried to protect her, but Darcy got it twisted in his mind and wouldn’t listen to reason.’

‘What did she do?’

‘You have to bear in mind that she’s only sixteen. I blamed it on her youth and inexperience, but I hear she’s none the wiser for her close shave, even now. I doubt she’ll come around. Without her father’s influence, and Darcy guiding her and managing her career, she’ll suffer for it.’

* * *

_14 January 2018 - media day take two  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘No Frequent Flyers today?’ Elizabeth asked, settling in to her seat.

Darcy sat opposite her, looking uncomfortable. ‘Not today.’ He said nothing else, and they descended into awkward silence. Elizabeth flicked through her notes, determined not to break the conversational impasse, when Darcy cleared his throat and said, ‘I see you’re on presenting duties today. That’s a change.’

Elizabeth gave a tight grin. ‘Mia called in sick; said she’s laid up in bed.’ Hungover from the cocktail party, more like. Her and Lydia Benson. Typical. ‘You’re stuck with me, unfortunately.’

He narrowed his eyes, like he was trying to puzzle out a tough corner of a Sudoku puzzle. ‘You wouldn’t always want to be the producer, though? I imagine you would prefer to be a presenter.’

‘What gives you that idea?’ Elizabeth asked. Natural curiosity led her to question him, even if her overwhelming urge was to shut down any personal conversation with him - especially after his blatantly rude comments the night before. Elizabeth wasn’t going to forget him comparing her to his sister and finding her lacking.

Darcy shrugged. ‘It seems like a stepping stone for you. You don’t act like someone content with the job they have.’

Surprise, and a bit of annoyance that the most self-absorbed man she’d ever met could see through her motivations when her colleagues were ignorant, flicked at her. She wouldn’t acknowledge him with an answer. She instead turned to the matter at hand. ‘I don’t know how much has been explained to you, but we’re doing a word association game with some of the players. We’ve already done Tilney, and Morland and Crawford are coming in after you. De Minaur, Zverev and Thiem are in this afternoon. We’re just after some light-hearted fun. I’ll give you a topic, and if you could answer in single word responses that’d be great.’

‘Understood.’

‘We haven’t started yet.’

‘Noted.’ He smiled when Elizabeth rolled her eyes, and added, ‘I’ll try to contain my effusive tendencies in order to play your game. Better?’

They went through various topics outside of tennis: favourite television show (he rarely watched television, but when he did he favoured shows like _True Detective_), favourite superhero (Batman), favourite city (London at home, and Tokyo abroad with a soft spot for Vienna). He liked gelato so much he made sure to visit Old Bridge Gelateria whenever he was in Rome. She coaxed him into a round of ‘most-likely-to’ with other ATP players, and laughed at the idea of him being most likely to end up singing ‘500 Miles’ with James Morland (‘He’s a good man but he has a fondness for dingy karaoke bars, believe it or not.’)

Then they moved on to tennis and she peppered him with a series of rapid questions.

‘Favourite tournament?’

‘Wimbledon.’

‘Favourite shot to play?’

‘Backhand down the line.’

‘Least favourite shot to play?’

‘Tweener.’

‘Preferred play when down match point?’

‘That would depend on the opponent.’

She should’ve expected that answer and grumbled over her poor choice of words.

‘Your opinion on underarm serves?’

‘Not for me, and not something I’d like to see become commonplace in the sport.’

‘Data analytics.’

‘The future.’

She’d wondered if he’d consider it cheating, and his answer intrigued her. ‘Are you already there? Using analytics?’

There was a moment’s silence when he regarded her curiously. Eventually, he said, ‘You’re very bold.’

Elizabeth was prim in her response. ‘You don’t get answers if you don’t ask questions.’

‘I do it a bit myself, but I also have someone run analysis for me.’

‘Who?’

‘I work very closely with someone, but I don’t bring in outside agencies.’

‘You seem reluctant to give me a name.’

‘I’m gun-shy about my secret weapon.’

Elizabeth huffed and crossed her arms. ‘Ok. We’ll move on to players now. Nadal.’

‘Tough. Exceedingly, admirably tough.’

‘Do I need to remind you about the one-word answers?’ she asked. She softened her words with a smile. ‘We’ll be here all day, otherwise. Next up, Djokovic.’

‘Intense.’

‘Murray.’

‘Statesman.’

‘Federer.’

‘Legend.’

‘Alexander Zverev.’

‘Ah, that’s tough in just one word. I’ll say he’s a future great.’

‘Kyrgios.’

‘Another tough one.’ He was choosing his words carefully. ‘Divisive but intriguing.’

‘Del Potro.’

‘Powerful.’

‘Knightley.’

‘Mentor.’

‘Hewitt.’

‘Ambassador.’

‘Morland.’

‘Passable karaoke singer.’

‘Tilney.’

‘_Terrible_ karaoke singer.’

‘We’re getting off track, here. Your first round opponent, Chamberlayne.’

‘Underrated.’

‘Your projected third round opponent, Bertram.’

‘Disrupter.’ She paused, uncertain what to make of his response. He seemed a bit flustered and quickly added, ‘Perhaps “unpredictable” is a better word.’

It was a strange answer: Bertram didn’t have a squeaky clean image, and was known to withdraw from tournaments to live it up on tropical islands and luxury escapes. Last year, he blew off the Rome Masters for a week-long bender in Ibiza - all captured on his Instagram stories. But when Bertram was on song, he was a great player; he just didn’t care for the old traditions of the sport. Surely Darcy was taking a swipe, so she likewise pulled no punches with her next prompt: ‘Joshua Wickham.’

Darcy stared at her, unflinchingly. ‘There’s nothing I wish to say.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘Off the record, I’ll say he makes friends quickly but loses them just as fast.’

‘What a shame he’s lost you as a friend then.’

‘If that’s all you have, we’re done here.’

Elizabeth bit her tongue. ‘Yep, we _are _done here.’

* * *

_17 January 2018 - the second round (day three)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘Ah, that’s not good news for the Brit. Darcy goes down a break in the third set, four games to two. Dashwood to serve, he leads two sets to love.’

Elizabeth sat, watching the match on one screen as the stats filled the other. She felt a perverse sense of satisfaction in watching the great William Darcy struggling with his play making and his temperament in the oppressive Melbourne heat. So much for the intensive training at his base camp in Dubai. He should have demolished Dashwood, the madcap Canadian suffering a downward spiral in his lacklustre career. No official word on why John Dashwood became a great failure to launch, but speculation was rife it was due to his manager wife’s hardline negotiating tactics with Tennis Canada. By the time the Dashwoods realised they’d pushed for too much, new talents had been discovered and fostered at the expense of the former teenage talent.

_Now, how to work all that blatant gossip into the broadcast without it sounding like gossip_, Elizabeth mused.

An interesting figure jumped at Elizabeth, and she sent it through to the commentators.

Lucas let out a low whistle. ‘Darcy’s only winning thirty-four per cent of his service games when he’s lost the opening point? Sure explains what’s happening out here.’ Lucas played with his bottom lip between his fingers, reading over the rest of the statistics.

Charlotte shook her head. ‘Maybe you could throw in some positive stats, make it look like we’re not writing Darcy off before the match is over?’ she suggested.

‘Not my fault the man is off his game today. Just giving the viewers the truth.’

Charlotte Lewis, ever sceptical, made it obvious she wasn’t buying Elizabeth’s reasoning, and spoke to the commentators directly. ‘Also note that Darcy has a seven-to-one record in winning five setters in Slams. Thanks guys.’

They were back on-air. Philips adjusted his mouthpiece and leaned forward into an imaginary microphone, a habit that both annoyed and amused Elizabeth. His real microphone was attached to his earphones, it didn’t matter how he sat. ‘Darcy needs to get in more first serves if he stands a chance here.’

‘He’s also got to get more depth in the rallies if he’s going to stay in it. Dashwood is getting easy points off Darcy’s forehand. It’s particularly weak today. But, ho! Did you see that? Commentator’s curse! Darcy fair whipped that forehand down the line and look at that! He likes it too!’

Elizabeth grumbled. Her mood didn’t improve when Darcy had his racquet restrung and took the set in a tiebreaker. He eventually won the match, six-one in the fifth set.

* * *

_18 January 2018 - the second round (day four)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘This year, spectators will be sure to notice the absence of the charismatic Joshua Wickham from the men’s singles main draw. It hasn’t been an easy year for him. Dumped from the British Davis Cup team, abandoned by his doubles partner and best friend, and with a ranking that has forced him to the Challenger circuit, his fortunes have well and truly reversed. He played in the qualifiers this year and didn’t make the cut.’

Elizabeth watched Lucas deliver a version of the piece she’d written on Wickham. Her version, the _right _version, was more critical of Darcy’s abandonment. Charlotte had removed most of the thinly veiled barbs at Darcy.

‘He won the US Open Boys’ Singles on the Juniors’ tour and was widely regarded as the “next big thing”. Two years ago, Wickham was an ascending star of the tour. He won in Auckland and made the semi-finals of Rotterdam and Rio. He was ranked inside the top forty with a career high ranking of twenty-nine and a regular at tournaments throughout the world, but the last time we saw Wickham in the main draw of a Slam was at the US Open in 2016. 

‘At the suggestion of his long time coach Victor Younge, Wickham has teamed up with Andrew Denny and has had some promising results on the doubles court. The pair have been given a lifeline with a wildcard to this year’s Australian Open; a welcome boost for Denny. He’s the unlucky journeyman that Australia loves to back, even though he’s spent years languishing on the Challenger circuit.

‘Through a niggling knee injury and some team issues, Wickham has made it to our fair shores confident and optimistic about his chances, but he won’t discuss the great rift with his old friend William Darcy. Seeing Wickham on the doubles court undoubtedly brings to mind his former playing partner and what could have been for one of the best doubles partnerships Britain has ever seen, but you could almost guarantee this is the comeback Wickham has been hoping for. This isn’t the last you’ve seen of this former child prodigy.’

* * *

_19 January 2018 - the third round (day five)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne _

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is _not _the William Darcy we’ve become accustomed to seeing at Grand Slam level. Perhaps all the speculation about his dispute with Wickham is starting to wear him down, despite the lengthy break he took.’

‘Well, you won’t get a comment from Darcy, that’s for sure.’ Lucas pushed away from the tiny table in the commentators’ bunker and swung his legs out. ‘We’ll be back after the break. Darcy is up a set but has been broken in spectacular fashion in the second, where he’s down a double break and trails five-one.’

Elizabeth watched the screen, chewing her bottom lip in concentration. She spoke to her commentators, ‘Dunno boys, but I reckon he’s about to snap out of it and make a comeback. Bertram isn’t exactly romping this in.’

Philips scoffed and shook his head, but if Elizabeth knew him at all, he was figuring out the odds and whether he’d offer her a wager. Lucas thought it over for a minute, and brought up Darcy’s come-from-behind win in Sydney last year, when Darcy’s back was to the wall.

‘I’m with Elizabeth. Darcy will do it. He has the determination to get over the line and Bertram is flaky.’

Elizabeth dearly wished to voice her opinion that Darcy had the sheer-blooded stubbornness to win if only to frustrate those who’d bet against him. Instead, she said, ‘Good memory on Sydney, Lucas. Use that, wherever you can. Just don’t call Bertram flaky on-air … Chatty Cathy would have our arses if one of her friends’ kids were insulted in front of a national audience.’

She focused on the data coming in from Hawkeye. Graphics with service placement percentages were prepared and sent through to the commentators. The only thing Darcy had going for him was that his placement was, for the most part, unpredictable, and his serve was one of the more reliable on tour.

* * *

_20 January 2018, the third round (day six)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘Charlotte, I have a brilliant idea for a guest commentator: Joshua Wickham!’

‘I have reservations about it, I’ll admit.’

‘There’s nothing to be worried about – he’s fresh, he’s current, and he has a connection to one of the most recognisable people on tour.’

‘A connection that Darcy all but ignores these days.’

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Darcy gets people offside everywhere he goes. It says more about Darcy than it does Josh. He’s told me what happened - all off the record, unfortunately - but Darcy’s too far above us all to say anything.’

‘You’re strangely energised about this.’

‘The viewers will _love _Josh! Have you heard him speak? He’ll charm the pants off _everyone_.’

Charlotte, to her credit, didn’t press Elizabeth on her sudden blush or ask for any details on the nature of Elizabeth’s relationship with Wickham. Elizabeth hastened to add, ‘We’re just friends. We met at the cocktail party and hit it off. Nothing suss.’

Charlotte gave the green light, and to Elizabeth’s utter delight, she was right. Social media went into meltdown after Wickham made his commentary debut. His insider views on the tour were fascinating and they resonated. People wanted to hear more about the locker room and the relationships between the players and their teams, what happened when they stepped off the courts. Elizabeth basked in the knowledge that it was her discernment, her call, that had been such a resounding success. It got her noticed with the execs, and she thought a promotion couldn’t be far off - maybe a shift to the evening news bulletin. She fairly glowed with self-righteousness. 

‘I’ll line him up for tomorrow’s afternoon session, then? Provided he’s not scheduled to play, of course.’

Elizabeth wondered at Charlotte’s hesitation, but clapped in excitement when Charlotte said, ‘I could probably get approval for the morning session. Put him on Hisense Arena with Palmer and Harris. Let’s see if he can boost ratings, god knows we’re lagging behind the morning shows without a top seed on. But make it clear this is a temporary, casual arrangement. One session at a time. Got it? Good. Make sure he does, too.’


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_21 January 2018 - the fourth round (day seven)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

She wasn’t watching where she was going. Her attention was on her trusty old clip folder, reviewing the camera crew roster for the following day while trying to hook her battery pack to her pants. She froze: they were down a technician. Watson’s wife went into labour last night. He would be on paternity leave for the remainder of the tournament. Elizabeth balanced her clip folder on her knee and scribbled a note, underlining it furiously.

‘Of all the times! Haven’t a spare gopher let alone a technician,’ she muttered, wondering if she could persuade Hill to pull a double shift. 

‘Do you always stop short in corridors?’

Elizabeth shut her eyes and tilted her head back. She took a fortifying breath before turning to face William Darcy.

Apparently alone, without his entourage and surplus supporters. The so-called Frequent Flyers.

‘I’d apologise, if I was sorry.’

He smiled and she wondered, not for the first time, if he was impervious to rudeness. She knew he wasn’t simple. It wasn’t as if he didn’t understand what she was saying, or _how _she was saying it.

‘No apology is necessary.’

Elizabeth nodded, smiled tightly, and wondered why he’d stopped if he couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. Surely he should’ve been on the practice courts warming up, or in the locker room. Elizabeth knew he had a game after lunch. Not before 1pm, if she remembered correctly, which jogged a memory that Hill had a cardiologist appointment tomorrow afternoon. He wouldn’t be able to cover for Watson after all. Perhaps if Robinson started earlier, they could muddle through until –

‘Would you like to catch up tonight?’

‘Thanks, but we’ve enough lined up for the time being. You’re ok for promos until the semis, if you make it that far,’ she added. 

She pulled her phone out, intent on sending Charlotte a text about the gap in the roster, when Darcy spoke again. ‘I wasn’t asking for work.’

‘Oh.’ She suddenly realised what he’d said, and looked up from her phone in bewilderment. _‘What?’_

‘It’s madness to me, too. I can’t believe I’ve even asked.’

A fuzzy noise filled her ears. ‘Don’t expect an answer, then.’

‘Beg pardon?’

Elizabeth took a deep breath and snapped her clip folder shut. ‘If it defies belief that you’d ask me out, it can’t be a shock that I carry on as if you didn’t say anything.’

Darcy narrowed his eyes. ‘And yet, I _did _ask you.’

‘Ok then. No.’

‘What? Why?’

Elizabeth clutched her clip folder tight against her chest. ‘This is feeling repetitive.’ 

‘It shouldn’t. You haven’t given me an answer.’

Elizabeth huffed. ‘Why would I want to go out with you? Give me one good reason why I should even consider it, given how you’ve treated me ever since we met. You’ve made it clear you have _no_ time for me, that you_ don’t_ respect me, and that I’m just another airhead female who flips her hair and smiles to progress her career.’

Darcy turned pale. ‘That was a private conversation –’

‘Can’t have been too private if I heard it.’

‘You’re going to judge me on one remark you weren’t supposed to hear?’

Elizabeth laughed bitterly. She shook her head in emphasis. ‘Oh, no. I’m going to judge you on every rude and belittling comment you’ve made to me and to those around me since we met. And you can bet your arse I’m going to judge you on how you treat people, myself and my friends included.’

Understanding dawned on his face. ‘I’ve heard you’re friendly with Joshua lately.’ 

_He doesn’t miss a trick,_ she thought.

‘_He _as least shows up at the appointed time and carries out his work without complaint. He puts in the effort. He tries to make other people’s lives easier.’ 

‘Why wouldn’t he? He’s getting money for jam.’

‘He’s working! And if it weren’t for you, he probably wouldn’t have to resort to casual commentating jobs to make sure he could get from one tournament to the next!’

Darcy laughed. ‘That’s what he’s told you? That he can’t afford to be on tour. How typical.’

‘Why are you laughing at him? This is all your doing! You made sure he was blacklisted, right when he was getting somewhere! He had sponsors lined up, and points to defend, and a coach to pay before you ripped the carpet out from under him. You screwed him over and set him back years! And why? Was he getting to be too much competition? Know too much about your game, did he? And then you cut him off from your sister, knowing he adored her! He thought of both of you as family when he had none of his own!’

Darcy squared his shoulders and looked at her impassively. She may as well have been a nameless, faceless, ball kid. Elizabeth took a step back. 

‘Clearly you’ve heard all about my past with Joshua.’

‘_He _has deigned to share details of his life with me, and expects nothing in return for it, too! Unlike you. You give me a couple of lousy interviews, the bare minimum to cover your commitments and even then, we used more of your team than we did you. Now you carry on like you’ve done me a favour and I’m in your debt!’

Darcy narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything. Elizabeth continued on. ‘You came in to Brisbane with your list of demands and requirements for your team, never once thinking that plans might have already been put in place. You were completely dismissive of everyone who wasn’t on your team, or part of the TA executive. You treated everyone in the media, myself included, with suspicion. You were so unprofessional, even more than you were before your lay off. You call yourself a sportsman? You’re a bully and a brat when you don’t get your own way. You are the _epitome _of entitlement. You’ve always been known as a temperamental subject but this year, you’ve upped the ante. So how did I go from being the enemy to someone you want to date? Huh?’ 

‘That’s really how you see me?’ Elizabeth nodded, jutting her chin out in stubborn resolution. Darcy looked like he’d eaten a lemon and washed it down with vinegar. ‘I thought you would be different. I thought you _were _different than the rest of them, but you were only pretending to be interested just to get a story.’

‘_What?_ What story? And when have I ever shown interest in you?’

‘You gave me the impression you were interested during those “lousy interviews”. You were the only person there who understood - at least, I _thought _you understood - that it’s difficult for me to give interviews.’

‘It’s difficult for me to remain polite to impossibly rude people but I manage to do it because it’s my job!’ 

‘Perhaps I should’ve just smiled and charmed you with pretty, empty words. Pretended that it didn’t matter that you’re the media and your true intentions might never be known.’

‘I’ve always been upfront with you!’

‘Have you? I’d beg to differ, but it doesn’t matter now. I was clearly wrong to approach you like I have and I’ll leave you alone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a match to prepare for.’

Elizabeth shouted at his retreating back, ‘Of course, don’t let the peasants distract you!’ 

She continued on, baffled and confused by what had just happened. She allowed her rage to carry her through the crowds and out into Melbourne Park. A walk along the Yarra and she was soon in better spirits, having decided to put William Darcy out of her mind and chalk up the whole experience as some kind of heat-induced glitch in the order of the universe. 

Charlotte texted, having realised the rostering issue, and Elizabeth hurried back to the control room before the afternoon session started. She went about her work with surprising ease, and was graciously understanding when Josh had to reschedule their plans for the evening. His coach suggested they take the opportunity to have a hit up against Tommy Bertram. 

_Never mind_, she thought with false optimism. _Today was one of those days. Hit refresh tomorrow and start again!_

The next morning, Elizabeth was checking her Instagram feed for what the players had been snapped doing in the last twenty-four hours. What she wanted was another shot like the one Agnieszka Radwanska uploaded days before: she was with Karolina Pliskova and Madison Keys, recovering in an ice pool. It was a show of solidarity to Elizabeth: competitors, but friends. They weren’t tearing each other down. They weren’t hissing and spitting and clawing at each other all the time, contrary to popular belief.

_Hmm, what else_, Elizabeth thought, still scrolling. Simona Halep was having serious issues with her ankle. If only Halep would post a picture of her foot with a caption as entertaining as her post-match interview after beating Lauren Davis. Or, better yet, maybe Elizabeth could ask Davis to send through a picture of her missing toenails. _Might make a few viewers squeamish, but a lot has been made of it …_

Elizabeth refreshed her feed and, finding nothing, searched using well-known and predictable hashtags. Her hand faltered when she saw a post from William Darcy’s verified account.

There was a picture of Darcy with his team. Elizabeth made out Charles, Carrie and Jack as well. They appeared to be at a bar somewhere along the Yarra. Somewhere obviously glamourous and popular. It was an Instagram perfect snap: bucket of ice with champagne and flutes just-so, city skyline, river, soft twilight flare (probably enhanced by five different filters, Elizabeth thought shrewdly, and posted by Carrie). Carrie was sitting between Darcy and Jack. She looked like she was holding court. They all looked like they were having a good time – except for Darcy. He didn’t look sad, exactly. Distracted, maybe. He was sitting at an awkward angle to the others, with his phone in his hand. If she didn’t know better, Elizabeth would think Darcy didn’t want to be there, and hadn’t been participating in the conversation. 

Her suspicions were confirmed when she read by the caption:

**@williamdarcy.gb**

_When everyone helps themselves to champagne and you’re on the sparkling water to celebrate a hard-fought win! Into the second week and the quarter finals. Thanks for your hospitality @thepromenade.melbourne_  
.  
.  
.  
#ad #thepromenademelbourne #domperignon #teamdarcy 

Elizabeth noticed that it had been reposted by Carrie with a plethora of hashtags like _#bestboss _and _#thanksboss_, along with _#poppinbottles_.

If she had to guess, Elizabeth would say the photo was taken only a couple of hours after Darcy had asked her out, and then demolished William Elliot in his match. Darcy won in straight sets, in under two hours. Elliot withered under the barrage of Darcy’s play, winning only eight games in the whole match.

He’d obviously done as he said he would: forgotten about the whole unfortunate affair, and carried on as if nothing had happened. Stubborn git.

* * *

_23 January 2018 - quarter finals (day nine)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

Lucas let out a low whistle. ‘Well, ladies and gents, what you are witnessing here on Margaret Court Arena is _extraordinary_. This is nothing short of a capitulation by William Darcy; an absolute walkover! I don’t really know what else to say.’

Philips agreed. ‘It wasn’t the most favourable of draws given his ranking coming into the tournament, but I wonder if pressure and the long matches this week have caught up to him. He was ruthless in the fourth round against Elliot but he’s a completely different player today.’

Elizabeth watched through cynical eyes as Darcy framed a return. She bit her tongue, lest she unloaded and told them why Darcy was playing so poorly. How would he have fared if she’d agreed to go on that date with him? She tried to push the thought away. No matter how big of a deal he was, no matter how self-assured he was, Elizabeth was adamant: she would _never _agree to date William Darcy, or be aligned with him in any way but a professional capacity – and even then, she’d have to weigh up if it was worth the awkwardness it would undoubtedly bring.

She turned her attention to the bank of screens in front of her and watched as Darcy netted a ball attempting a backhand passing shot down the line. Harville took the second set.

‘Darcy has been played off the court by Harville, despite Harville nursing some kind of ailment. Remember Harville called for that medical time out at the end of the second set. But he is just better across the board today. He might have had a bit of Lady Luck on the net cord to win the first set but with the way it was going, you’d bet your house he was going to take it anyway. Darcy looks like he’s still trying to wake up and find his racquet! Where’s his backhand? His marvellous, technically brilliant backhand that allows him to dominate from the baseline … one of the best, if not _the _best on tour at the moment. _Where is it_?’ 

Lucas was working himself up and if it weren’t for the rising colour in his face, Elizabeth’s sense of _schadenfreude_ would have been tickled. _Don’t have a heart attack live on-air_, she prayed. Lucas’s efforts were seized upon by Philips, who took the baton and ran with it.

‘Darcy’s shot selection has been appalling; absolutely appalling,’ said Philips, passionately. ‘He’s trying to force what has always come so naturally to him. And there he goes, proving my point! That drop shot from the back of the court was not on, not at all. He was a metre – almost two metres – behind the baseline. Harville read it like a book. Darcy might as well have hired a skywriter and shared it with the whole of Melbourne. I hate to say it but Darcy is coming off as a puddler today. 

‘He lost the second set when he shanked a low-percentage backhand down the line. A regulation cross-court shot would’ve done the job.’

‘He’s just been passive throughout this whole match and so far in the third, he’s lacking in intensity. He almost seems distracted.’

Lucas and Philips fell silent as Darcy called for a challenge to Harville’s serve that had been called good.

‘You raise a great point there about Darcy’s intensity. He’s also lacking intention. He’s lacking execution. His mental game is off. One of the toughest players on tour, usually unflappable, and his mental game is _off. _He’s just going through the motions now. Ah, good challenge. That serve was out by … two millimetres, Hawkeye tells us.’

‘Doesn’t matter though, as Harville takes the game to lead two-one in the third. But hold on, what’s happening here? Is that Darcy calling for the trainer? Is there an injury we haven’t noticed, do you think?’

_Surely he’s not going to blame this on a non-existent injury, _Elizabeth thought venomously. She watched through narrowed eyes as Darcy approached the chair umpire, but he merely adjusted his cap and continued to his racquet bag.

‘Change of racquets, eh, Philips? Seeking inspiration, do you think?’

‘Quick intake of water and electrolytes, too. Can’t hurt, Lucas. He’s probably praying for divine intervention.’

In the end, it didn’t matter. Darcy was beaten in straight sets. Elizabeth couldn’t find it in herself to be overjoyed at his defeat, but she wouldn’t deny feeling relieved that Darcy wouldn’t be hanging around Melbourne Park any more.

* * *

_24 January 2018 - quarter finals (day ten)  
The Australian Open, Melbourne_

‘Tough luck.’

Josh shrugged and smiled. ‘We lost to a better team. That’s how the cookie crumbles, eh? Or stiff bikkies, as you Australians might say.’

Elizabeth gave a small smile and shrugged, unsure how to progress a conversation that had started out on such a low point. 

‘How much longer will you be in Melbourne?’ she asked, hopeful that he wasn’t going to fly out straight away. 

Her hopes were in vain.

‘This evening, actually. I’m about to leave for the airport. I had to stop by, though.’ His smile was wide and welcoming, and she thought that if nothing else, she would always remember him as the benchmark for guys in general, not to mention a professional yet approachable and relatable player. ‘So, you know, if you happen to be covering a tournament I’m playing in, don’t forget your favourite commentator. Give me a call any time you need insider tips.’

With a wink and a grin, he hitched his racquet bag on his shoulder and started to walk away without a backward glance. Elizabeth, somewhat shocked, raised a hand and called out a belated farewell.

_Did he just ask for more work? And didn’t even say a proper goodbye? _

_So, that’s that, then_, she thought, bemused. Maybe they weren’t friends after all, or could-have-potentially-been-more-than-friends. 

Easy money. 

_Money for jam_, Darcy had called it.

Elizabeth thought back over the last fortnight, trying to remember how her friendship with Wickham came to be. Josh had approached her after that awkward conversation with Darcy at the Open cocktail party. By then, Darcy’s slur against her work ethic and professionalism had taken root in her mind and she was determined not to like him. She’d been short with Darcy, trying to end the conversation as quickly as possible. What had she and Darcy discussed? Elizabeth’s failed tennis career, and then he’d shared a completely unrelated anecdote about Georgiana, and how his darling little sister had managed to overcome career hurdles at such a young age and wasn’t that so bloody brilliant for teen sensation Georgiana Darcy, with all her extensive and expensive training and access to government-backed sporting programs. If only everyone could have Georgiana’s persistence, perseverance, and natural talent. _If only._

Had that actually been Elizabeth’s opinion at the time, or was it subsequently influenced by Wickham’s stories of a spoilt and pampered teen who coasted by on the strength of her name and connections?

The next day, Charlotte was good enough not to comment on the bags under Elizabeth’s eyes. It didn’t escape Elizabeth’s notice that when she thought she had the moral high ground, she didn’t lose any sleep over William Darcy. Seeing that _he _hadn’t spared her a backwards glance in jetting out of the country was surprisingly harder to accept. He must have gotten an overnight flight. He was homebound. 

She knew this, because Carrie had posted a picture of him reclining in an airport lounge, headphones on and eyes closed, hands folded over his chest: 

**@williamdarcy.gb**

_Reflecting on the first swing of the 2018 tour and the lessons it delivered. Ready to get back to the practice courts and continue working hard. Thank you for having Team Darcy, Australia. Until next time! Now for the Davis Cup. _  
.  
.  
.  
#enroute #dubaistopover #londoncalling #emirateslounge #australianopen2018 #daviscup #teamgreatbritain #teamgb

Carrie must have been paid-per-post. 

Elizabeth withstood the urge to follow him on Instagram. Carrie clearly managed his account; all the posts were curated and followed the same formula. She didn’t want anyone to see she was following him. She would check in, occasionally, from afar. And in the interim, she would get back to work. The first of the semi-finals were on, and she wanted to get to Dylan Alcott’s presser.

Battery pack and headphones in place, Elizabeth was settling in to her bunker and flicking through the pages affixed to her trusty clip folder when, coming to the end, she found an envelope with her name on it.

Elizabeth checked around her but Lucas and Philips hadn’t joined her yet. She opened the packet to find a handwritten note on hotel letterhead and signed off, simply, _William_.

She skimmed through it, scarcely believing what she was reading. It was too much to take in at once.

They _were _best friends – in that, Josh hadn’t lied. They were inseparable: the adoptive brother neither had, so much so that the Darcys welcomed Josh to their home over the holidays. They’d trained together from primary school and attended Rosings Academy when it became apparent they had potential. Darcy’s father paid for Josh to attend the prestigious school since the Wickham family couldn’t afford it; Josh had relied on scholarships up to that point. They were signed to the same sports management agency and sportswear label, thanks to Mrs Darcy’s family connections. They were going to be the first all British men’s team to win a Grand Slam doubles title since the Renshaws in the 1980s. Josh was his greatest support when Darcy’s parents died. 

Elizabeth read the bittersweet memories through stunned eyes, watching as it all fell apart:

Once they were old enough, they left behind the Juniors tour and started on the Futures circuit, quickly progressing to Challengers events. But Darcy garnered more attention from the governing bodies and media alike, despite lacking in Wickham’s natural charm. He received more wildcards, and won more qualifiers, and it showed when he climbed the rankings faster than Wickham did. His prizemoney started to outstrip that of Wickham and soon enough, Darcy suspected that Wickham was involved in match fixing: he’d lose matches where he was the unbackable favourite, or go down after taking out an early lead. ‘He’d choke, essentially,’ Darcy wrote. When the Lawn Tennis Association looked into it, Wickham blamed his patchy form on a fabricated knee injury. The Tennis Integrity Unit investigated but didn’t charge Wickham because his financial records were clean. 

Darcy turned a blind eye to some of Wickham’s transgressions. He knew of Wickham’s recreational cocaine habit during layoffs between tournaments, and Wickham’s bullying of lower ranked players in the locker rooms and practice courts. Wickham brushed it off as being competitive, trying to get an edge over his opponents. 

With such poor form, Wickham wasn’t invited to play at exhibition tournaments and he started to get left behind. His natural talent wasn’t enough anymore, especially not against the top players. In hindsight, Darcy supposed that was why Wickham turned to performance enhancers. He tried to pass them off as Georgiana’s when Darcy found them. 

Georgiana, who’d been visiting Darcy on tour at the time, and who’d viewed Josh as her bonus brother, was devastated that she’d been fed to the wolves. Darcy could overlook many things his friend was doing, but he couldn’t risk his sister’s future. Darcy knew he wasn’t the most popular or friendly player on tour, but he drew a line at what he considered unsportsmanlike behaviour. 

Darcy and Josh were due to play at Queen’s, and it caused an almighty uproar with the Lawn Tennis Association when Darcy pulled out at the eleventh hour and didn’t expand on the reason for his departure: ‘A personal issue has arisen and I need to make it a priority. I will not make any further statement in this regard.’

He couldn’t bring himself to report Wickham for fear of what it would do to Georgiana’s career, but Darcy threatened to do so if Wickham didn’t get clean.

Georgiana, he wrote, was only starting out on the Juniors tour was terrified her career was over before it had truly started. Darcy sent her for full blood and urine tests with three independent labs as precautionary write ups in case Josh tried to pin the blame on her later, or blackmail her. Darcy accompanied her to the Fitzwilliam Academy in the Bahamas to escape and do some soul searching. Given everything that had happened, Georgiana wasn’t sure if she still wanted to play. He then extended his break from playing despite the drop in his ranking, and left the running of his brand to Jack and Carrie while he hunkered down with Charlie at the Netherfield Club. 

Elizabeth was stunned. It was a confronting letter. Concise, and written to directly address her complaints about his treatment of Josh … yet, he didn’t explain his feelings or tell her how they’d come about, nor did it make any amends for the things he said about her. She was still confused about that; how _she _of all people could have caught his attention and inspired any kind of feeling in him was unfathomable.

Hadn’t they just barely tolerated each other?


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_2 February 2018 - Spain v Great Britain (first round tie)  
Davis Cup World Group, Marbella_

For a sports producer, Elizabeth was feeling distinctly shafted.

A week after the Australian Open concluded and Federer defended his title (_ALL HAIL THE GOAT #peRFect #20Slams #GOAT_, Elizabeth had posted to her Instagram along with a selfie taken from the press box, Federer in the background holding aloft the Norman Brookes trophy), she’d missed out on covering the Davis Cup tie between Spain and Great Britain. The network had sent Philips and Lucas as commentators but opted to send a production team from the European bureau, so here she was, crammed on a bus with an interesting mix of commuters, huddled over her mobile. 

_Shafted_.

Perhaps she should be thankful for small mercies … at least she wouldn’t have to see him play in person. Especially after reading his mortifying letter.

Darcy was playing in the second rubber against Felipe Vicario. The Brits were down, with Broady having lost the opening rubber. The live stream loaded on her mobile and Elizabeth watched Darcy and Vicario warm up. 

It was going to be a tough match. The two had never faced off before. It was Darcy’s first match after his exit from the Australian Open and his form was shaky. Vicario was an up-and-comer on the tour. Until recently, Vicario was better known for his love life than his playing. He was frequently seen with this actress or that model, until his engagement to New York socialite Augusta Hawkins was announced in grand fashion. 

Elizabeth adjusted the buds of her earphones and angled her phone so the man in the seat beside her couldn’t watch over her shoulder. He looked like a uni student. He had that wiry, sinewy look about him, like he hadn’t eaten anything but two-minute noodles for months. She missed personal space. 

Darcy had a rocky start. He dropped the first two sets and was down a break in the third when she kicked open the door to her unit, eyes still glued to the screen. He certainly wasn’t his usual, overconfident self. Even when losing, Darcy looked like a smug and superior git, but not today. He looked discomfited. The camera panned over the crowd and focused on a small contingent of British fans, their faces etched with concern. One man sat with his hand over his mouth, eyebrows pinched in a severe frown. Another man was half-heartedly waving a Union Jack flag between points.

The Spanish fans were in full celebration mode, and though the Spanish team weren’t cheering yet, they appeared confident.

‘Never write off William Darcy,’ Philips was saying, as Darcy sent a forehand long to hand Vicario another break point.

‘_Vamos!_’ Vicario shouted, punching the air.

‘That’s right,’ echoed Lucas, but he seemed to lack conviction. ‘It’s not over ‘til the fat lady sings!’ 

A lone voice for the Brits shouted, ‘C’mon Darce! Get it together, mate!’

Vicario was bouncing around on the baseline, ready to receive serve and ostensibly sending Darcy a message, trying to intimidate him.

‘Darcy’s taking a moment at the back of the court, reaching for his towel and carefully selecting balls. He’s throwing back balls not to his liking and letting off some negative energy in the process, smacking them away. It looks like he’s having a stern chat with himself, too. Now, Lucas, how tired would Darcy be, do you think? He’s played a fair bit of tennis in the last three weeks. At the Australian Open he played a couple of five-setters, and a long four-setter before going down in a straight sets demolition. The fatigue would be incredible, even though he’s had a week or so off to regather and recuperate.’

‘Too right, Phil. The man would have to be exhausted, even with the recovery techniques the top players use these days. None of that existed in our days! A swim in the ocean to get rid of the lactic acid and a decent night’s sleep was about it. I’d even go to the pub for a pint or two after some matches. Now there are warm downs, ice baths, compression suits … you name it, they do it. Ah, that’s better; an ace for Darcy to save break point. And a nice one at that. Two hundred and twenty-one kays, straight down the tee. Fastest of the match so far and a good confidence booster.’

The British team cheered, no doubt trying to energise Darcy. Knightley, the team captain, stood and fist pumped, clapping hard. Elizabeth flicked on light switches as she walked through her home, her eyes still fixed on the screen. A low battery warning dipped down to obscure her view for a moment, and the brightness dimmed.

‘Back to deuce. What can Darcy produce here … what spell can he weave? … what rabbit can he pull from his hat to stage a miraculous comeback ...’

Elizabeth made a mental note to talk to the boys about their banter. The filler was appalling.

‘He’s going back to basics, relying on his bread-and-butter shots to get out of trouble. That was a really good serve. Right at the body; it jammed Felipe and left him unable to get any racquet on the ball. Advantage Darcy.’

Elizabeth settled on her couch and grabbed her tablet to continue watching the match. Her phone was now flat. 

‘And Darcy holds serve!’ called Philips. ‘He had to, otherwise it would’ve spelled disaster for him and Britain here in Marbella. Team GB are on their feet, cheering on their man as they should!’

‘So much for not writing him off,’ Elizabeth muttered under her breath.

During the change of ends, Darcy had a brief consult with Knightley and jogged out to hand his towel to a ball kid.

‘I like what I’m seeing here, Phil. Darcy is looking like he’s in it again. He’s only down the one break and we all know how quickly momentum can swing in these matches.’

‘And that’s exactly right, Lucas. Just look at Darcy now. He’s got good body language … he’s feeding off the crowd … now he’s looking like a man who believes …’

Elizabeth watched as the crowd became more vocal. Darcy broke back in Vicario’s next service game and took the third and fourth sets, easily. She remained on the couch, grimacing at close calls and groaning at unforced errors. Her heart rate rose dramatically when Darcy slid to retrieve a shot but stumbled awkwardly. He dusted himself off and gingerly flexed his foot, slowly rolling his ankle. Moments later, Darcy was ready to return serve, knocking the dust off his shoes with his racquet. 

From there on out, Darcy was never challenged on serve. The Spanish were trying to lift Vicario with an enthusiastic Mexican wave that went around the stadium after big points, but he was lagging. He wasn’t match fit and he looked defeated, taking issue with the British fans chanting out the riff to ‘Seven Nation Army’ for every game Darcy won. It _was _a catchy tune, Elizabeth acknowledged. 

_‘Wohhh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ohhh-ohhh!’ _

_Ah well, better song than Rock’n Roll. How quickly a singer could ruin their own song, kitsch as it was._

Hours later, Elizabeth climbed in to bed with her heart rate back to normal but the song still stuck in her head. 

She rolled her eyes when she saw Carrie had posted Darcy’s victory to Instagram with a snooty comment about perseverance and self-belief.

* * *

_8 March 2018 - first round  
Indian Wells Masters, Indian Wells_

Darcy had a bye in the first round. Elizabeth knew this. She’d checked the schedule of play. It was right there, in plain English. He wouldn’t be playing today.

Still, Elizabeth set her Google Alerts and turned on push notifications for his Instagram. (She’d caved a few days prior and started following him. Her username didn’t identify her, and her profile picture was sufficiently ambiguous as to not show her face. Her account was private. He (or Carrie) wouldn’t know it was her.)

She didn’t regret turning him down. Not at all. Without a doubt.

Elizabeth put her mobile on the table, screen down. She was busy. She had work to do. The Commonwealth Games were starting in less than a month and she was reviewing results from the Australian swimming titles, wondering if the team would put on a better show than their underwhelming efforts of Rio. She scrawled a note to check on the Canadian swim team. She’d heard they’d put together a decent squad. Elizabeth jumped when her phone pinged.

She quickly tapped at the screen and saw a new post on Darcy’s Instagram. 

**@williamdarcy.gb**

_Last weekend I joined Darcy Scholarship students at the Fitzwilliam Academy for a hit out. I had thought to impart some of my wisdom, only to be corrected on the grip on my half-volley. Never too old, as they say. Thanks to Georgiana for making an appearance, and giving her insights into the Juniors tour and how she handles the critical moments on court and the off-court expectations._

It was a photo of a group of teenagers with Darcy, all holding racquets and looking like their Christmases had come early. It was a good photo, Elizabeth thought, taken courtside at sunset. They were sweaty, dirty, and elated. The infamous Georgiana Darcy stood beside her brother, hugging her tennis racquet to her chest and smiling softly. From what Wickham had said of Georgiana, Elizabeth had expected to see an overconfident teen, but compared to the other kids of a like age in the photo, Georgiana was composed and contained. She looked far older than sixteen, at any rate.

It _was _a good photo. It was a refreshing change from the obviously staged and carefully choreographed posts from Carrie: no hashtags, no tags. It humanised him and softened her impression of him further. Would the William Darcy of twelve months ago – hell, _two _months ago – have posted a picture like that? She knew the Darcy Scholarship had been established by William and Georgiana after the death of their parents. It wasn’t the standard sports scholarship. Her Google-stalking had informed her that it was only accessible by children in dire circumstances who couldn’t afford training. The Darcys’ association with the Fitzwilliam Academy went back two generations. It reminded her – forcibly – of his good deeds. The ones she’d conveniently overlooked while she was schooling him on his arrogant attitude.

She’d called him a brat who threw temper tantrums when he didn’t get his own way.

_There’s a pot and kettle headline somewhere in that_, she thought bitterly.

* * *

_6 April 2018  
Commonwealth Games, Gold Coast_

Elizabeth was run ragged. It’d been a heavy workload from the start of the year, and having the Commonwealth Games in Australia meant that as the host country, the network was everywhere. Every sport, every event, was covered.

Worse still, everyone from the Foundation to the Corporation chairman wanted coverage to be bright, upbeat, and optimistic. _It’s a party! Act like you’re at the greatest party of your life! The Gold Coast IS a party! Party, party, party!_

Even though she’d buried William Darcy’s letter deep in her cupboard, she’d found herself fishing it out and packing it in her suitcase when she was getting ready for the Games. More often than she cared to admit, she pulled it out and read over it again. Thankfully, tennis wasn’t part of the Games. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to play nicely with England’s number one ranked tennis player.

He wasn’t absolved. He wasn’t forgiven – well, not entirely.

The more tired she got, the more her mind rebelled. She’d been unreasonable. She was _still_ being unreasonable. But in work, she found her distraction. Out of sight, out of mind. She couldn’t contact him if she was perpetually exhausted and time poor, which didn’t go unnoticed by Charlotte. 

‘I knew you were keen to prove yourself, but is this job really worth your sanity? Is being a reporter that important?’

‘Who said I was sane to begin with?’ Elizabeth returned. Her small smirk felt half-hearted, and judging by the look on Charlotte’s face, her joke had missed its mark.

Elizabeth couldn’t wait for the Commonwealth Games to be over, and they were only three days in. The swimming program was the only thing maintaining her interest. She didn’t care that Australia was dominating the medal count. Even the stories of unexpected and underdog medallists failed to inspire. She’d almost prefer to deal with Chatty Cathy and Bumbling Bill again.

Almost.

* * *

_27 April 2018  
Riverina region, New South Wales_

‘Are you that traumatised by the Comm Games that you’re putting your hand up to cover Prince Harry’s wedding?’

Elizabeth shrugged. ‘I want to do more than be _that _sports producer. This stint with _Mornings _is good but I need to do more to show I’m not a one trick pony. Maybe I should look at vacancies somewhere regional. Just not Meryton. I don’t want to live close to my parents again.’

‘Don’t do that. You’ll be wasted reporting on community fairs and petty crimes.’

‘At least I’d be reporting.’

‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve got a good thing going here - brekkie TV isn’t something to sneeze at, you know. It’s just that the truth of the matter is we don’t need anyone else in England for the wedding.’

‘Oh.’ Elizabeth’s voice was flat. Her shoulders slumped. ‘Fair enough.’

‘Funnily enough, most people are willing to put up with the three ring circus of a royal wedding if it means a week in London on the company dollar,’ Charlotte said dryly, giving a small and twisted smile. ‘And, if they were smart enough, and got in early like I did, they could have piggybacked a European holiday to the assignment.’ 

Elizabeth smiled, genuinely pleased for Charlotte. ‘Where are you off to, then? Can I hide in your suitcase?’

‘Spain! Two weeks traipsing around in their late spring. I can’t wait! I’ve already booked my tickets.’ 

There was a momentary flare up of jealousy, quickly quashed. Elizabeth needed to let go of her disappointment in missing out on the Davis Cup tie in Spain. It wasn’t so much the gig she regretted, but the travel. 

Elizabeth smiled. ‘I’m not sure if Spain is ready for you.’

‘Most likely not, after the year we’ve had so far.’

‘Now, repeat after me: “the _rain _in _Spain _…”’

They laughed, enjoying a brief respite from the bleakness around them. They were in their makeshift lunch room – a weather beaten camping gazebo with a rickety fold-out table, set up on the edge of a dried and dead paddock. Skeletal looking cows were edging closer, trying to get under the shade of the gazebo. They sniffed at the air, desperate for food and water. Elizabeth and Charlotte were on day four of a special report covering the drought in New South Wales and Queensland. Yesterday, they were at a cattle station the size of Monaco, speaking with the husband and wife team who were absolutely skint, barely able to feed their family and stock alike, while struggling to keep the banks at bay. Farms that had been in families for generations were at risk of collapsing, and there was no sign of rain any time soon. Charities were helping with food donations but the feeling amongst the communities was that governments at all levels weren’t doing enough to support the agriculture.

It didn’t help Elizabeth’s low spirits, visiting these drought affected areas, but it certainly gave her something to focus on. 

Elizabeth looked over the barren landscape with unfocused eyes and sighed. ‘I know it sounds petty, but I can’t wait to get away from here. It’s depressing.’

‘Imagine living through it.’

‘I’d rather not. I’ve enough misery to contend with as it is, and now I hear you’re about to jet off on a Spanish holiday.’

‘On that point, I was wondering if you could help me.’ Charlotte’s eyes were sharp. She briskly wiped sandwich crumbs from her fingers and picked up her mobile, all business again. ‘Eddie has approved my leave on the condition I head to Paris beforehand and put together something on Josh Wickham’s year to-date. Says the viewers responded well to him, and it’d be nice to have a follow up. I asked Mia King for Wickham’s number since they went out on a couple of dates, but she says she doesn’t have it anymore. Wiped her contacts when her phone went swimming, or something. Could you give me his number?’

‘Wait, what? Mia and Josh _dated_? As in, properly dated?’

Charlotte was incredulous. ‘You didn’t know? You had to cover for her because she was playing hooky with him.’ Elizabeth stared, dumbfounded. ‘You seriously had no idea that was why Lydia had her nose out of joint at the Open? Where were you when it all went down?’

_Probably stewing in my baseless contempt and pathetic dislike of a man who didn’t deserve it._

‘Working?’ was Elizabeth’s weak offering.

Charlotte continued. ‘Lydia was fired up because Wickham cooled things down with her when he realised she was in hair and make up. Mia was a better catch.’

‘She was one of the presenters in Brisbane, and then in Melbourne, wasn’t she? Before she went to the news.’ That feeling of dread she’d managed to push aside and ignore opened wide in Elizabeth’s stomach. She put her fingers to her temple, massaging a sudden headache. ‘Mia, presenter. You, director. Me, producer. ’

Charlotte smiled, but it wasn’t sincere. She thrust her water bottle at Elizabeth like a sword. ‘Finally realising he was only interested in certain positions, not the people? Of course, any time a young, fit and charming Romeo takes an interest in an on-the-shelf, grizzly thirty-something like me, I’m suspicious.’

‘He played me.’

‘If it makes you feel better, he played everyone. Gardiner included. And now I have to butter him up if I want my sangria-drenched Spanish sojourn because the creep doesn’t have a manager to deal with. So, his number, if you don’t mind.’ 

Elizabeth nodded. She was entering her passcode to unlock her phone when she stopped and looked at Charlotte, appalled. ‘I let him call me “Liz”!’

Charlotte choked on her drink. ‘Oh wow, he really blinded you.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

_28 May 2018 - the first round (day two)  
The French Open, Paris_

A Google alert flashed across the screen of her mobile, and Elizabeth read that Darcy had progressed to the second round at the French Open after a clinical straight sets win against qualifier Robert Martin. The article finished with the news that Darcy had withdrawn from the doubles tournament after his playing partner, James Morland, retired midway through his first round match against Tommy Bertram.

Underneath the article was a link to a story about Tommy Bertram: _Bertram announces new doubles partnership with Joshua Wickham._

Elizabeth wasn’t surprised by the announcement. Given what Darcy had written about Wickham, and from the rumours about Bertram, it seemed they were two peas in a party pod. She forwarded the article to Charlotte with a note: _Wonder how long before this one implodes?_

Charlotte’s response made Elizabeth laugh, and realise how much she missed her friend and work mate.

_You do realise I’m on holidays? And you do realise I don’t care what that miserable, pathetic excuse for a human being is doing, especially after he gave me the slip? Best you forget all about him and find someone who won’t drag you down. _

_Costa Brava sends its best. Would’ve loved to have come here with you - miss you!_

Charlotte attached a selfie of her beachside with a pitcher of sangria, looking fabulously tanned and relaxed. 

Elizabeth sent back a quick reply. 

_Yeah right you wish I was there. You will be telling me all the sordid details as it concerns that gorgeous man giving you a foot massage. (Your sunglasses are reflective. Take that into account when sending selfies, Fergie.)_

* * *

_5 June 2018  
Sydney City_

Eddie Gardiner rapped his knuckles against Elizabeth’s cubicle wall. ‘What are you working on?’

Elizabeth had been pretending to read a story that Isabella Thorpe had written about … well, Elizabeth didn’t actually know. Her mind had wandered. ‘Just something Izzy has put together. I, er, haven’t gotten very far into it.’

‘Forget that. You’re coming to lunch with me. My shout.’

Eddie had been uncharacteristically mysterious about why he wanted to meet with Elizabeth, and why it had to happen away from the office. Elizabeth briefly entertained the idea that she was about to be handed a Dear John letter, but Eddie led her to a table by a bank of large windows and ordered a bottle of wine for them to share. He relaxed into his seat. 

Whatever was coming, Elizabeth was confident she wasn’t being let go.

Eddie fixed her with an appraising stare. ‘I believe you’re over the sports gig.’

‘Just a bit. It’s been a while.’ There wasn’t any point in prevaricating, not with Eddie.

‘I’ve got something you might be interested in,’ he started, quickly adding, ‘it’s not a complete break away from sports, but it’s something different.’

The smile on his face gave rise to her curiosity. She leant forward, bracing her forearms on the table. ‘You have my attention.’

Glass of wine in hand, Eddie asked, ‘What do you think of London?’

‘Big city on the other side of the world. Capital of the country that gave us the Beatles, Harry Potter, both of Beckham’s feet and every other thing Hugh Grant claimed for them.’

‘Allow me to be more specific, then.’

Gardiner, the brilliant man and benevolent boss, proceeded to tell her about a posting at the European bureau he’d secured for her. She was London bound!

‘You’ll be everywhere, doing everything and anything. Mostly for _Mornings _but you might also get a call up for other shows on the network. It’s a chance for you to get away from sports every day, but you’ll still be doing a few things like Queen’s and Wimbledon. We don’t have broadcast rights but we’ll still want a bit of coverage. And before that, there’s the cricket. It’ll be as boring as watching paint dry, but we need to get some traction with that since we’ve got the Cricket Australia contract. I want you on that; you’re a natural. Forget the Comm Games – most people already have! And it was only the lawn bowls.’

Mention of the Commonwealth Games brought down Elizabeth’s jubilant mood. She’d been the producer on the gold medal match for the women’s four and had completely blanked on match details while the host was live on air with no notes. Lulu Hurst had been ropeable. Off-air, she’d sworn and raged at Elizabeth and their director, John Haggerston. Lulu wore a mottled shade of puce that no amount of make up could hide when they came back from the commercial break. A formal complaint against Elizabeth and Haggerston was made, and Lulu had to live with the resulting investigation being written off as exaggerated and vexatious. 

‘Small mercies, hey?’ Elizabeth gave a small shrug, still smarting over the episode. No one had ever made a complaint against her before and she thought it might have been why she hadn’t been promoted.

‘Everyone has their off days.’

‘I stuffed up. A good producer never lets their presenter hang out to dry.’

‘A good presenter is also across the material, just remember that.’ Eddie looked at her appraisingly. ‘I’ll arrange it so you get to London a few days early. Take some time off and scout around a bit. Or get some sleep and lay off the double shot long blacks, or whatever it is you’re drinking to get through every day. You don’t skoll Red Bull behind my back, do you? No? Red lollies, jelly beans? No Doz tablets? Not that Kombucha rubbish?’

Elizabeth laughed, and Eddie smiled. ‘That’s more like the girl I hired. Now, I’m thinking I’ll order the steak sandwich and a side of buffalo wings, but if anyone asks, I had the grilled fish and salad.’

* * *

_9 June 2018  
Brisbane International Airport, Brisbane_

She downloaded the episode as a back up, in case there wasn’t anything on the in-flight entertainment that caught her fancy.

She double checked that the specific episode of George Knightley and Emma Woodhouse’s show featuring William Darcy had downloaded in full.

Once settled at her boarding gate, Elizabeth started listening to that specific episode. It went the way good shows usually do. Introductory banter between hosts who were clearly intelligent, charming, and well informed people, followed by a segue into the topic of discussion and welcoming of the guest. 

It went smoothly for a while. Darcy and Knightley talked tennis and Great Britain’s chances in the world group play offs for the Davis Cup. Knightley asked pertinent questions about the mess that was the ATP Player Council. Darcy answered honestly yet diplomatically that it was a time of change and inevitably, great upheaval. He, however, thought it would be beneficial in the long run and was determined to see it through. He wanted to improve communication between the council and players on tour, one thing he thought was sadly lacking.

‘Which is all very admirable, but I have to ask,’ said Emma, seemingly bursting, ‘why are people making such an issue over Serena Williams’s outfit?’

‘You’ll have to ask those making an issue of it, I suppose,’ was Darcy’s neat deflection.

Emma wasn’t having any of it. ‘Are women not allowed to make fashion statements anymore? Are they not allowed to choose the outfits they wish to wear without getting approval from stuffy old men?’

‘It’s certainly not traditional,’ Knightley chimed in. ‘I’d be surprised if they don’t do something about the dress guidelines. Bernard Giudicelli is something of a traditionalist.’

‘What’s it to him?’ cried Emma. ‘I love seeing a strong woman out there making a strong statement; more power to her!’

‘Well, he _is _the president of the French Tennis Federation, so I imagine his say has some weight,’ reasoned Knightley. 

‘So you’re on his side?’ Emma quizzed. ‘Darcy, what’s your view?’

‘I don’t have a view on it, to be honest.’

‘What if it was your sister?’ pressed Emma. ‘What would you say then -’

‘I’d be surprised if she wore a full body suit, I’ll admit it.’ Darcy paused, and for a moment Elizabeth thought he wouldn’t answer, but he continued, ‘My sister isn’t relevant to this, so I’ll leave her out of it. We’re talking about Serena. She’s a great of the game. Certainly in this era, no one has come close to touching her. She’s outplayed and outlasted virtually everyone. If she wants to wear a catsuit and feel like a princess from Wakanda, then she will. She doesn’t need my backing, and I doubt she’d stop to ask for anyone’s approval, either. Serena will do as she wishes, and let the cards fall where they may. She, and actually most women, I’m sure, won’t appreciate another man telling women what to do. They want to be heard, not lectured.’

Darcy added, ‘To bring it back to tennis, there’s a lot of talk about the state of the women’s game at the moment, and I’m not sure it’s entirely justified. There are a lot of talented players in the mix, and momentum is difficult to sustain when you constantly have people coming for you. What they wear on court is the least interesting thing happening in the game, and I hope more people will come to realise that as well.’

Elizabeth was watching a Darcy who was more invested, more engaging, than she’d ever seen, and regretted that he hadn’t been so forthcoming when she’d interviewed him. She’d have so many questions for him, if only he’d answer them.

Knightley smiled and looked to Emma. ‘Do you wish to interrogate our guest further, Emma?’

‘I’ve one question left,’ Emma said with a laugh. ‘Have you thought about going in to politics? You’d certainly get my vote.’ 

‘It’s not on my radar at present,’ was Darcy’s droll response. ‘I’ll stick with what I know.’

‘I think you’d be a shoe in for the female vote,’ Emma continued. ‘Smart, handsome, an advocate for women’s rights … What’s not to like?’

Darcy’s smile was strained. ‘A lot, apparently. As I said, I’ll stick with what I know.’

‘A shame, that. I for one would like to see more of you off the tennis court. Do you have a girlfriend? No? That’s interesting. I have a friend you might like -’

‘Emma, please. No more matchmaking.’

‘I was only going to say that I know someone he might like to meet. I wasn’t going to pressure them into anything, I was just going to let nature take its course.’

‘Leave it to Cupid. You’re terrible at setting people up.’

‘I am _not_! I’ve had many happy couples thank me for introducing them!’

‘You can’t claim the Westons as a success story. They already knew each other, and you best served them by staying out of their way.’

‘_Excuse me_, but I’ve had _both _of them thank me for giving them that extra little nudge they needed!’

‘Are you two always like this?’ Darcy asked, reinserting himself in the conversation. 

Emma seemed to have forgotten Darcy was there. ‘Like what?’

‘Never mind.’ Darcy waved away the topic but there was a sly smile on his face that Knightley ignored.

‘We’ve gone completely off track now,’ Knightley said.

‘Quite!’ agreed Emma. ‘Although it certainly wasn’t my doing. Now, Darcy. Thank you for your time today. I think I may have actually learnt something about tennis - incredible, and something Knightley hasn’t managed to pull off in all the years I’ve known him. I’m kidding, I’m kidding! No need to retaliate, Knightley. But from here, dear viewers, we say a fond farewell. Knightley and I are off on summer holidays. Not together. I don’t know what this dull boy here will be doing, but I’ll be spending a few weeks under the Mediterranean sun mixing business with pleasure. If I can coax Frank Churchill into a guest appearance upon our return then I certainly shall. You are forewarned, Mr Churchill. I know you’re watching today.’

‘Frank Churchill?’

‘That’s right! Frank has just wrapped his world tour and I’ll be meeting up with him and some gorgeous friends for a sojourn around the Croatian islands.’

Elizabeth watched as Darcy sat silent, following the exchange between the two hosts. She’d stopped paying attention to them; they were on some other tangent that she didn’t understand. She was too busy wondering whether Darcy had been referring to her when he’d mentioned there were lots of things to dislike about him. Surely she wasn’t the only person he’d come across who thought he was difficult and unlikeable. Everywhere he went, he offended people and put them offside.

His appearance wouldn’t set the world on fire. Some of his comments might be picked up by the tennis sites but he didn’t say anything that would’ve garnered the interest of the mainstream media. Most of the time, he was excessively polite. He answered every question, even if it was to change the subject. Only at the end did he volunteer anything. 

It wasn’t the Darcy she knew, nor the Darcy that Carrie wanted the public to see, but she’d be lying if she said she didn’t want to see more of it.

* * *

_10 June 2018  
Heathrow Airport, London_

Jetlag was killing her, as was her one-wheeled suitcase. It went through check-in at Brisbane International with two perfectly functioning wheels and came out at Heathrow suspiciously lopsided. At least it didn’t end up on the wrong plane, jetting to Botswana. Small saving grace in that.

Elizabeth struggled through the airport, grappling with her bag and fighting the useless wheel. She needed to find the entrance for the Underground. The Tube. _Mind the gap._ Aside from the jetlag, she was ecstatic. She’d arrived for her stint at the European bureau – thank you, Eddie Gardiner! Three months based in merry ol’ England! And a trip to Ireland with the news crew, following the newlywed Sussexes. There was also the very real possibility of further travel to European countries, and Jane, her sister, was planning to visit later in the summer.

_Way out_. Nope, she didn’t want to exit the terminal, she wanted the Tube.

Elizabeth dumped her bag and spun around, trying to find the distinctive logo. She’d never been to England before and was at a loss. It must have shown, because eventually, a serious looking man in a business suit asked if she needed help. She tried not to let her surprise show: weren’t Londoners notoriously snobby and unhelpful? Hadn't she heard that from basically every friend who'd been on a Contiki tour through Europe?

Would she judge every Englishman based on her preconceived and faulty notions?

‘You’ll find the entrance down a level. Get yourself an Oyster card if you plan on getting around using the Tube. Stay on the Piccadilly line until you reach Earl’s Court, then change to the District Line for Bayswater. It’s easy to follow the maps, and they’re everywhere.’

Elizabeth thanked him profusely, her jetlag making her more effusive than normal. The man merely nodded, gave a small smile, then continued on his way, document bag held securely to his side.

She needed to remember her resolutions: don’t jump to conclusions, don’t immediately suspect the worst of people, and don’t wilfully misunderstand them.

Serious Suit was the first testing of this resolve, and it’d been a shaky start. She would need to do better if she was going to (potentially) be thrown into the path of William Darcy. Forewarned was forearmed: according to his official website, Darcy was scheduled to play at Queen’s.

* * *

_13 June 2018 - game one  
One Day International series, London_

‘People. Everywhere. Literally people _everywhere_,’ Elizabeth grumbled into her mobile, holding it tight against her ear. She sidestepped a member of the Barmy Army who’d taken a little too much sun during the day, and was a little worse for wear.

‘You did say you were at the cricket, didn’t you?’ Jane’s voice came through the phone, calm and collected as ever.

‘Yes,’ answered Elizabeth, ‘but there are so many bloody people! Hasn’t anyone ever heard of _personal space_?’

‘What’s the matter? You don’t seem happy. I thought you’d be thrilled working in England?’

Jane’s concern was touching, but not what Elizabeth wanted to hear at that moment. She’d just spied William Darcy and Charles Bingley walking in her direction and ducked behind a pillar, pretending she needed to adjust the strap on her sandal. They passed, and she continued on in the opposite direction, disgusted with herself. She’d wanted to avoid any awkward encounters, but had only made herself look and feel ridiculous. 

She’d once told Darcy that she couldn’t be intimidated, because she was stubborn enough to rise above it.

What a fool she was.

‘Elle? Are you ok?’

‘Yeah, I’m ok. It’s just that Australia sucked. We were never in it.’

* * *

_14 June 2018  
Bayswater, London_

She’d been in England for less than a week when she’d received an email from Charlotte with the subject line: “Wasted Wickham”.

The email contained a link to a news article with a short note from Charlotte. _“Told you he was bad news. Now he’s done. You dodged a bullet. C.”_

Elizabeth read the article, short as it was.

_Less than six months into his return to the game, tour favourite Joshua Wickham has been provisionally suspended by the International Tennis Federation for testing positive to cocaine. The ITF has charged Wickham with various anti-doping violations. A hearing date is yet to be announced. _

_Wickham faces several years out of the game._

_Further details to come._

She exhaled deeply. What an absolute waste … of time, of talent, of energy. He had the world at his feet and he was too lazy to do anything with it. With a grimace, Elizabeth remembered she’d accused someone else of being privileged.

She was riding the Tube several hours later when she let out a bitter laugh, concerning the lady sitting opposite her: at least she wouldn’t come across Wickham at Wimbledon now.

* * *

_18 June 2018 – round one  
Queen’s Club Championships, London_

Elizabeth heard her before she saw her. 

Catherine Bourke was barrelling down the hallway, loudly asking (demanding) that her brownie and her champagne (to be served at precisely nine degrees, and not in a chilled glass), be delivered to her at the second change of ends. Elizabeth, untrained in the service of beverages and hospitality in general, knew her way around a wine bottle. She doubted the venue’s caterers and bartenders needed a refresher lesson from the likes of Chatty Cathy.

Unwilling to repeat the past and get into a lengthy debate on how she should approach her job, Elizabeth and her cameraman went to the press gallery to set up. Taking a position to the side of the second row, she had her mobile ready to record the interview and pulled out her pen and clip folder, earning the disdain of some ironic looking hipster intern with a suitably hipster device. His smirk annoyed her; it shouted arrogance and presumption. Would the Master of the Tortoise Shell Horn Rims remember any of his thoughts from the presser? Kyrgios was due to speak at any moment; his eleventh-hour withdrawal from the French Open made him more interesting and she didn’t want to miss a word from his sullen, petulant mouth.

That was what she told herself, but Elizabeth knew she was delaying the inevitable. Word had spread that William Darcy was out on the practice courts and she was working on that old mantra of hers about courage rising to every occasion. She wondered how long she could avoid him.

Still, Kyrgios was news-worthy back home, no matter what he was up to. Elizabeth was already mentally putting together a short piece on the rumours that Tennis Australia had sent in Lleyton Hewitt to keep an eye on Kyrgios and his terrible temper. He was the modern day John McEnroe. William Darcy’s on-court tantrums were mild compared to Kyrgios’s efforts. William had never sledged another player, or thrown in a game, or accused officials of corruption. William’s flare ups were mostly at himself or his racquet. He never shouted towards his player’s box. He never blamed anyone for a loss except himself. There was a time, she recalled, when he’d suggested an umpire see an optometrist for missing an obvious overrule right in front of her. Until earlier this year, she would’ve charged Darcy with thinking that an audience witnessing a loss of control would’ve been beneath him – now she supposed it was him keeping his temper in check.

Kyrgios was late, and barely offered an apology for his tardiness. Why didn’t she get as angry at him for being late as she did Darcy, back in Melbourne? Why did she drag random files on Darcy from her memory banks? Where did the recollection of the optometrist comment come from? When was the last time she’d been to an optometrist, anyway? Realising that particular train of thought was getting ridiculous, Elizabeth made a note to check on the Halle Open schedule. Federer was playing there, vying for his tenth title. 

Federer never would have made the optometrist comment.

_Oh yes, and all hail Federer. As if he’d never lost his cool before. Pull yourself together, you have a job to do._

Kyrgios was fielding questions on his upcoming match with Murray, returned from injury. He spoke with respect, which was kind of shocking to Elizabeth, even knowing that Murray and Kyrgios were friends. It showed that he was capable of good form, whenever he put his mind to it. But Darcy wouldn’t have made a slur against an opponent’s girlfriend, unlike Kyrgios. 

Elizabeth needed to stop comparing Darcy to everyone else on tour. 

It didn’t matter, anyway. Not really, although it was reassuring to know that even if her arsehole-radar was off, she could still capture the attention of a mostly decent man. 

But she had no connection to Darcy and didn’t expect that she would have much, if anything, to do with him again. Channel Four hadn’t secured the broadcast rights for the tennis in 2019. She was mildly disappointed, and it wasn’t entirely confined to the work arena.

Some time later, with her eyes on her notes and not on where she was walking, Elizabeth was pushed aside by a racquet bag.

‘Oh, ‘scuse me! I should really watch where I’m going. Sorry!’

Elizabeth was grumbling and rubbing her shoulder when surprise cut through her annoyance. ‘Charlie! Hi!’

She smiled brightly, though she could tell Charles Bingley was having trouble placing her. 

‘I’m being overly familiar, I know. Elizabeth Bennet. We met a few times during the Australian season. I’m with Channel Four.’

‘Ah, yes! I’m sorry about that. My mind is somewhere else today. How are you? What a surprise to see you in England!’

Elizabeth started to explain she’d been sent on an extended assignment with the network, when new voices joined them.

‘Skulking around, getting friendly with the paps, I see.’

‘I’m not a pap, thanks all the same,’ she retorted, affronted.

‘Please excuse my cousin. Jack had a few ales with lunch and has forgotten his manners. Hello, Elizabeth.’

‘Darcy! Oh, shit! Hi! I mean, hello. Umm … how are you?’


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

_20 June 2018  
Bayswater, London_

She suspected that he’d been loitering around the cafe near her unit, waiting for her to appear. Elizabeth had rolled out of bed sometime after eleven in the morning, having finished work around midnight. Her body clock still hadn’t adjusted to the time difference between Australia and England, and the demands of what could be considered graveyard shifts, except that it was breakfast television back home. When she approached the cafe, desperate for a coffee and maybe a scone, she’d found him sitting at a curbside table spinning an empty disposable cup in his hands.

After some stilted conversation, she mentioned she was going to take a stroll through the neighbourhood. 

‘May I join you?’

He was flustered and awkward, appearing to have asked on an impulse that he was immediately regretting. So she agreed.

‘This looks nice. Can we go in here?’

Darcy looked up but was soon disinterested. ‘Hyde Park.’

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Ok, turn your nose up at one of the most famous parks in the world and look as if you’ve just seen a suburban playground.’

‘We can walk through it if you’d like. There’s the Serpentine, the Princess Diana Memorial, the Peter Pan Statue …’

‘The history of Speaker’s Corner kind of appeals.’

‘I am _not _surprised.’

‘I led you into that, so I’ll give you a free pass this time.’

‘You are all that is magnanimous.’

‘Indeed, but it has its limits.’ She smiled, and felt lighter around him than she ever had before. This was actually … _fun. _ ‘If my mum ever found out I’d been near the Princess Di Memorial but didn’t get her a photo, my life wouldn’t be worth living.’

He shook his head but lead the way, smiling indulgently. ‘You know, I thought you’d be keen for Peter Pan. A word of warning, though … Watch out for the squirrels.’

‘Got something against squirrels, have you?’

Not two minutes later, having already said all they could on the weather, Elizabeth cast about for something to say when movement by a tree caught her eye. She grinned and started searching through her pockets.

Darcy saw what she was about. ‘I wouldn’t recommend that.’

‘Oh?’

‘Have you ever come across a Hyde Park squirrel before?’

‘What? What’s that look for?’

‘Would you feed a possum back home?’

‘Um, well, no but -’

Elizabeth had never seen William Darcy doubled over in laughter before. She’d maybe - probably - have a squirrel scamper up her arm and mess her hair again if that’s what it took to break the ice with him.

* * *

_23 June 2018  
Bayswater, London_

‘Federer is _clearly _the best player of any era.’

‘And yet, he’s only won the French once.’

‘What of it? Same with Djokovic, and Nadal has only won the Australian once.’

‘Have you allowed that Sampras, or Agassi, maybe even Laver or Gonzalez, might fit the bill?’

‘I rate Laver over Gonzalez on national pride alone. Laver and Federer are in a class of their own, but it’s still Federer, for me.’

‘Of _course _you think he’s the greatest. You’re obsessed with him.’

‘Look, I’ll admit to being a fan but I draw the line at obsession. It’s a little too strong. And there’s no need to get all defensive, even though you’ve never beaten him.’

‘Oh come on, I haven’t played against him in three years!’

‘Do you think you’d stand a chance, now?’

‘He’d be tough on grass, but on hard court I’d say my chances were good.’

‘Let’s hope you don’t end up on his side of the draw, then.’

‘Depends on what seeding I’m given.’

‘From a spectator’s point of view, I hope you’re on opposite sides of the draw. That way I might get to watch both of you a little while longer.’

‘Are you admitting that you like to watch me play?’

‘Your ego precedes you. Do I have to remind you that I get paid to watch you play?’

‘That’s harsh.’

‘But true. To an extent.’

‘To an extent?’

‘I may have watched your Davis Cup matches. And some of your French Open matches. I may have also been in the crowd yesterday.’

William winced. ‘Of all days, why did you have to be there yesterday? 

‘It could’ve gone either way. Tilney was playing out of his skin.’

‘It was a tough one to lose, I’ll admit, but Henry was definitely the better player on the day.’ With a smirk, William added, ‘He would’ve pushed even your precious Federer, I’d say.’

‘Don’t be salty that I like Federer.’

‘Have you ever met him?’

Elizabeth was somewhat petulant as she said, ‘No.’

‘Would you like to?’

* * *

_24 June 2018  
St Dunstan-in-the-East, London_

‘What’s it like, standing on Centre Court and playing before a home crowd?’

William didn’t reply for a while. He narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips a bit, his attention far away. She waited, turning the paper coffee cup in her hands, hoping she hadn’t overstepped the mark. She hadn’t thought it an intrusive, overly personal question, but without Carrie there to act as arbiter, Elizabeth couldn’t be sure. Out of all topics, she thought he would be effusive in his love for the game and his home Slam. 

‘I make no secret of the fact that Wimbledon is the one I really want to win …’ He paused. His frown concerned her. ‘Give me a moment. I can’t put into words.’

‘We can forget I asked. I don’t mean to be nosey.’

‘Not at all.’ He waved away her dismissal. ‘Sometimes I just need time to put it together in my mind. You may have guessed that I’m not very good with words. Speaking doesn’t come naturally to me and I don’t like being put on the spot. I prefer to have time to think things through, first.’

‘And write a letter, perhaps?’

Darcy laughed. ‘Perhaps,’ he conceded. 

‘No wonder you hate doing interviews.’

‘I don’t _hate _it.’

‘You’re terrible at them.’

‘Am I truly terrible?’

‘You’re terrible to work with, especially when you have an overzealous PR manager barring questions and waving scripts in people’s faces.’

‘Carrie’s not so bad once you get to know her. She’s serious about her work.’

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow. ‘You do realise that she has a rider for you? And that she thinks any question without notice is a personal question?’

‘She knows I don’t want to talk about Georgiana or Wickham.’

‘Granted, but a question about your career goals _is _relevant to your work and not just a personal question.’

Conversation lagged, and Elizabeth looked around her. They were mostly alone in the gardens. A few people were sitting on the park benches arranged in a circle but they’d chosen to walk along the walls. Warm sun streamed through the trees and she stopped walking, inhaling deeply and marvelling at the space around them. Without Darcy, she would’ve walked right on by the entrance, never suspecting this hidden gem existed. She was going to make some comment about how it’d been preserved and repurposed, when Darcy spoke again, his voice soft. 

‘You know, I thought I’d done well with you.’ He was quiet, looking only at the bottle of water in his hands. ‘It’s little wonder I’ve never managed to read you correctly.’

She didn’t know what to say in response, so she said nothing at all. He must have organised his thoughts because he said, without any prompting, ‘You’re aware there’s a line from Rudyard Kipling above the players’ entrance to Centre Court? Of course you are; you’ve done your homework.’ He smiled, the gesture and his words both soft. ‘For years, that quote annoyed me. “_If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster and treat those two imposters just the same.”_ I’d always dismissed it as toff. Why wouldn’t you treat your triumphs differently to your disasters? One is to be celebrated; the other is best forgotten but always a lesson.’ Elizabeth opened her mouth to interject, to voice her opinion, but he beat her to it. ‘I’ve had good reason to think over Kipling’s words this year, and I’ve realised I’ve been looking at it wrong, all this time. You see, earlier this year I was given a long overdue lesson in humility that cured me.’

‘Oh. Really?’ 

‘Mostly. It’s a work in progress.’ William gave her a sidelong glance, and smiled. She couldn’t help but smile in response. ‘Are you this sceptical with everyone?’

‘I’m beginning to think you’re a special case. I’m working on it.’

‘Let me know how that works out, would you?’

Elizabeth snapped her mouth shut. It was definitely too early to let him know that he was making her question everything she thought she knew and felt about him. Gone was the resentment and the dismissive attitude, replaced by an unidentifiable feeling. Something between admiration and affection, like friendship but _not_.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to reveal anything when he hadn’t given her much by way of encouragement.

* * *

_26 June 2018  
Wapping, London_

‘What is this place?’ Elizabeth asked, sitting opposite Darcy at the trestle table and taking in the rooftop bar.

‘I first came here with Charlie, last winter. All of this,’ he used his hand to gesture toward the middle of the space, ‘was an ice rink. Now they’re set up for croquet. The screens here are for the World Cup.’

‘The World Cup, as in soccer? How _thrilling_.’

‘Football, actually.’

‘Not where I’m from, but hey, when in Rome …’ 

She took a sip from her drink and promptly screwed up her face. ‘It appears I need to make some exceptions to that rule. I won’t have any haggis, black pudding, or cocktails with bloody cucumber in them. _That_ is terrible!’

‘Don’t let Jack hear you degrade a classic Pimm’s, or other national delicacies for that matter. He wouldn’t be impressed after the hospitality we’ve shown you.’

‘Duly noted,’ Elizabeth murmured with a smile. ‘You’ve all been fantastic hosts, showing me around London. Let’s forget the unfortunate episode of Jack trying to drown me in the Thames.’

‘Between you and me, I think he was a coward targeting you and not Carrie. She wouldn’t have been so forgiving if her hair had gotten wet.’

‘We were in a hot tub, on a river. _Wet _was always going to be part of the equation. Still, without you lot I wouldn’t have had nearly as much fun as I’ve had, so thank you.’

He waved aside her thanks and mumbled it was his pleasure, but clearly his playing the tour guide alongside his friends wasn’t uppermost in his mind. ‘What do you have against football?’

Elizabeth grinned. ‘Nothing, but I can’t say I care about soccer until it’s the World Cup.’ 

‘So you didn’t care last week, but you do now?’ 

‘I wouldn’t claim that it’s more than a passing interest,’ she said with a smile and a shrug. ‘Soccer is a sport I can’t even pretend to like. Plus the Socceroos aren’t so great.’ 

‘Football.’ 

‘Football is played with an oval ball.’ 

She detected rising levels of frustration from Darcy as he replied, ‘That’s Union.’ 

‘Or League, or AFL.’ 

‘Don’t you mean Australian Rules Football?’ 

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. ‘Ok, fine. Point proven. But don’t expect me to call it that. Aussie Rules, maybe. Aerial ping pong, perhaps.’ 

‘You wouldn’t find any argument here, I dare say,’ Darcy said, dismissively.

Elizabeth smiled sweetly. ‘Just because we’re better at Aussie Rules doesn’t mean you should scoff at it.’ 

‘Says you, who doesn’t like football – _soccer_, whatever you call it – because the Australian team is rubbish.’ 

‘Middling. Unpredictable.’ 

‘The mark of a true fan is they stay loyal throughout the good times and the bad.’

‘You don’t need to tell me. I stupidly threw my lot in with the Cowboys and look at the year they’re having.’ Elizabeth was bitter, and didn’t mind showing it. ‘Thurston’s swan song has turned into a tragedy.’ 

‘It’s like you’re talking another language.’ 

‘Now you know how I felt when you started speaking about the World Cup!’ 

‘It’s the world game!’

Elizabeth raised a shoulder in a shrug, tiring of the topic. ‘I’m going to get a different drink, one that doesn’t turn a cocktail into a salad. Care for anything?’

Darcy politely refused the offer. Unsurprising, since he was gearing up for Wimbledon and drinking soda water. Now that she thought of it, she wondered that he - and to a lesser extent, his team - was able to spend so much time with her lately.

‘Should you be here?’

‘Is there somewhere else I should be that I’m not aware of?’

‘Well … Wimbledon is coming up -’

‘I’m aware.’

‘- and I know other players are in full prep mode. Djokovic is -’

‘I hate to interrupt you again but I pay little attention to what others are doing.’

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. Of course he didn’t. He did what he wanted and cared little what others thought of him.

‘Yes, but while you’re out and about with me, you’re not preparing.’

‘While you’re at work, or sleeping away your mornings, I’m working. I’m getting ready. I’m not slacking off.’

She pouted. ‘Working for breakfast television on the other side of the world tends to put the body clock out a bit.’

‘No doubt.’ He grinned, and turned his attention to the croquet match being played in the middle of the bar. When he spoke next, he didn’t look at her directly. ‘Would you like to come to a practice session?’

‘Are you serious? I mean, yeah, of course. I’d love to!’

‘I have a session booked at Matlock this evening, if you’re not working.’

‘I’m not working, but are you sure? You don’t need me loitering around and being a pest.’

He smiled. ‘Offer still stands. Charlie will be there. You could team up with him and play two against one, if that makes it more appealing to you.’

She spoke before she could change her mind. ‘Ok, I’d love to. But … I’m not really dressed to play tennis.’

‘You would let that stop you?’

‘All right, challenge accepted. I’m not one to wave the white flag when my back is to the wall. I’ll run around barefoot in a summer dress.’

‘We’ll see if it meets the dress code. It _is _a private club, after all. And if I don’t leave soon, I’ll miss my session. Shall we, then?’

Elizabeth hopped up from her seat and grabbed her bag. ‘Yes, my good sir! Let’s!’

A little over an hour later, and William was practicing his slice serve. Charlie was standing on the baseline, occasionally offering tips such as, ‘Ball toss needs to be a little more forward’, and ‘Open up your shoulders’, or ‘Try following through a bit more. You’re pulling up early.’ 

After a serve to the ad court failed to produce enough of a bounce to satisfy Charlie, he called out, ‘I don’t know. It just needs more _kick_, yeah?’

Elizabeth laughed and Darcy’s trademark hauteur came to the fore. He huffed in frustration and replied, ‘Yes, I’m aware. Are there any more sterling comments from the peanut gallery? Tell me again why I’ve hired Annesley when I could just promote you to be my coach?’

It was an inside look into a world she’d previously only seen glimpses of, and she was having a field day.

The practice continued with some resistance training, and Darcy going through a convoluted routine involving free weights, resistance bands, a balance ball, and a maze made out of dome markers.

‘Impressive!’ 

Elizabeth heard Carrie before she saw her. ‘You’ll have to do it again so I can get it on camera.’

William squinted into the late afternoon sun, spotting Carrie. ‘I’m not sure if training videos are necessary.’

‘You’ve had close to five thousand new followers this month alone – we need to keep it up, keep this momentum going!’

William stood with his racquet in hand, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his sweaty brow. Elizabeth tried to concentrate on the conversation at hand, but found herself somewhat distracted.

‘To what end?’ William questioned.

‘You’ve got to keep all the adoring fans happy, that’s what!’ laughed Charlie, earning a curse from William.

‘Don’t play daft! Djokovic and Sascha do it, so does Sharapova. Even Murray did it on occasion. Bouchard has to post something to stay relevant since she can’t string together wins anymore. And you know that the more followers you have, the greater the appeal for new sponsors. It puts you in a better position with - oh, I didn’t realise you had company. Hello, Elizabeth.’

‘Carrie, hi.’

Elizabeth climbed down from her perch on the umpire’s chair and made her way towards the group. Carrie smiled a brittle little smile, and spoke to Darcy. ‘We can talk business later. I wasn’t aware the media was invited, or I would have been here earlier.’

‘I invited Elizabeth,’ said Darcy, sternly.

‘I’m not here as media,’ Elizabeth added, and said no more. She felt it was unnecessary to elaborate.

Carrie raised her eyebrows. ‘I see.’ 

It was clear that Carrie saw rather more than Elizabeth was inclined to share.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

_26 June 2018  
Holland Park, London_

They were wandering aimlessly down a leafy street in a leafy suburb near Elizabeth’s lodgings, killing time before Darcy’s practice session, when she suspected they’d taken a wrong turn. ‘Are we lost? I think we’ve walked around in a circle.’

He looked up, took notice of where they were standing, and apologised. ‘I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was elsewhere.’

Elizabeth gestured towards an archway. ‘What’s down there?’

‘The Mews.’

‘Your description is descriptive.’

‘Ah, from memory, it leads to Holland Park.’

Elizabeth considered heading back to the terrace house, but decided against it. Harriet Smith was back from her assignment in Dubrovnik, waxing lyrical about all the celebrities she’d met and how _the _Emma Woodhouse had supposedly befriended her. Harriet now had nothing to say that didn’t somehow involve Emma, and her high hopes of a lasting friendship with the commentator, influencer, and brand ambassador. Elizabeth liked Harriet well enough, but she’d heard that much about Emma that she’d sooner sit under the approach path for Heathrow than hang out with her colleague. Elizabeth would much rather spend time with Darcy. It wasn’t a tough choice, really.

She flashed a cheeky grin. ‘Fancy a picnic in the park, guv’nah?’

‘_That _was the worst attempt at a Cockney accent I’ve heard in a long while. Dick Van Dyke would be appalled.’

‘Brought you back to the present though, didn’t it? Will sandwiches cut it, or do you want something a bit more substantial?’

She didn’t know how, but he managed to get a picnic platter prepared and ready for collection on short notice. They found a patch of grass under a shady tree, and Elizabeth asked him to share what he’d been up to since he’d been in Australia. She was amused by the tales involving the Frequent Flyers (she really wanted to get her hands on a picture of Carrie in a dirndl dress, and if Jack was ever allowed to set foot on Koh Samui again she’d be surprised), and quietly impressed with the changes he’d made to his game in general. He hadn’t undergone a complete personality transplant, but there was a subtle change in him that she couldn’t help but like. 

Elizabeth meant to spare him the awkwardness of the last time they’d seen each other at Melbourne Park, but he brought it up himself.

‘Do you really think I’m a brat? On court or otherwise.’

‘I said stupid things. I wish you’d forget them.’

She ignored that she’d clung to a stupid thing he’d said about her, and used it as the springboard for an unjustifiable dislike of him.

‘I’d like to know.’

Elizabeth measured her words carefully - a first, as it concerned him - and took a deep breath. ‘Sometimes, you come across as being … entitled. A bit arrogant. You don’t check yourself. You have all this talent, and all this potential, and it seems that you just _expect _to have everything fall into place for you. It’s as if you expect to win for no reason other than you’re William Darcy.’

He nodded but remained silent, and Elizabeth regretted being so blunt. 

‘Thank you. I think that’s the first honest appraisal I’ve had from a friend in a long time.’

Despite the topic, Elizabeth couldn’t help but smile. ‘So we’re friends now, hey?’

‘You’re part of a select group. Be honoured, as is appropriate.’

She narrowed her eyes and tried to glare through a smile. ‘Entitled _arse_.’

Darcy laughed in response and idly picked at a grape. Elizabeth stopped fighting the smile; her heart soared, her stomach swooped, and she fell for him. 

Hard.

She could scarcely believe it. Not that it had happened, because it was bound to with the way they’d been carrying on of late. But the speed in which it had happened, and the fierceness of her feelings, caught her by surprise. She noticed so many little things about him after that. His eyes, and how they’d stay trained on her behind his sunglasses. His smile, freely given. The way his hands moved with intention; he wasn’t one for useless gestures. Grace hardly seemed an appropriate word for a man like him, it seemed too delicate for such a strong person, but there it was. He had finesse. No wonder his balance and footwork on the court were impeccable; they were skills he’d honed off the court as well. She could barely contain herself, thinking that maybe she should just throw caution to the wind and _tell him _how she felt, maybe even snog him, but then the moment passed and it felt awkward and weird to bring it up. 

She didn’t want to be so obvious about it. She’d bide her time … think of another way to let him know her feelings had changed.

* * *

_28 June 2018  
Richmond Park, London_

‘What would the tourist like to do today?’

‘I don’t mind. What do you suggest?’

Truthfully, she’d be happy to sit in a cafe and sulk over coffee and cake, but she could tell he was making an effort. When he’d suggested they meet up that day, she’d been excited to see him again and eagerly agreed. Not long after, she’d received a text from Jane that threw Jane’s travel plans in doubt. 

It was followed by a phone call from her supervisor that she would be needed at the bureau earlier than scheduled. Apparently Maria Rushworth had issues with the interview they were due to air later in the week, which was just hilarious to Elizabeth. Mrs Rushworth (nee Bertram, daughter of the wealthy but shady voluntourism tycoon) married the simple heir to the Sotherton Hotels empire, and the pair were more intent on partying and updating their social media accounts than on his business. Maria’s team had approved the interview questions ahead of time, and Maria had clearly rehearsed her responses; that her husband was less adept at saying the right thing at the right time was hardly grounds to reshoot the interview. If someone appeared on a reality television show with the basic premise of dysfunctional marriages, one could hardly complain about the level of dysfunction exhibited.

‘If you’d rather be alone, just say,’ said William, snapping her back to the present. ‘I think you were happier to be around me in Melbourne.’

‘No! That’s not it. Sorry, I don’t mean to be … well, you know. I’m just a bit … I don’t know. I’m disappointed, I guess. Jane was supposed to visit me in a couple of weeks but she might not make it now. Her boss is saying they’re too busy for anyone to take leave.’

‘What does your sister do?’ He was only being gallant and courteous. Sometimes she wondered how much of it was genuine, or whether he was on his best behaviour to impress her. She would’ve been happy with either reasoning.

Elizabeth smiled, thinking of Jane. ‘She’s a graphic designer for a fashion magazine. _Fashion Forward_. She was freelancing, but she was offered a permanent role a couple of months ago. She probably doesn’t have enough leave accrued, but Jane did say she could work remotely. Sorry to blather on. I’ll stop talking about someone you’ve never met.’

‘Are you feeling homesick?’

‘A little, I suppose. It’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it? I’ve only been here a few weeks and I’m having Vegemite withdrawals. At least I can have a decent cup of tea here. That makes it a bit easier.’

‘I’m no stranger to homesickness. I spend most of my year living out of a suitcase.’

Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped. ‘That was insensitive of me, sorry.’

Darcy looked bewildered. ‘There’s no need to apologise. If anything, I’m sorry I put you in a position where you felt the need to apologise.’

They were all excessive politeness and Elizabeth was equal parts amused and disappointed that they’d devolved to such empty civilities. 

Darcy shook his head slightly, probably realising what he’d said. ‘Enough of that, then. What say you to a long lunch, to cheer you up? I know just the place.’

Elizabeth looked down at her frayed jeans and sandals, and frowned. Would they even let her in to a posh restaurant? ‘I’m not really dressed for some place fancy.’

Darcy appraised her outfit and shrugged. ‘You’ll do.’

Her reply was droll. ‘How flattering.’

‘I actually quite like the jeans, for what it’s worth.’

Elizabeth checked her watch and swallowed down a healthy dose of disappointment. ‘I’d like to say yes but I’m due to start work at half-two.’

‘You’ve been in England for a fortnight and you’re already mastering the language.’

‘Side note, and unrelated, but I’m actually doing a Master of English Studies. Or rather, I was.’ He gave her a sidelong look, and she scoffed. ‘There’s no need to be so sceptical.’

He held up both hands in surrender. ‘I’m not doubting you. I’m wondering why you stopped studying.’

‘Work, mostly. I was struggling to get a job as a journalist, and I thought I might become a secondary school teacher instead. The Masters course was supposed to help me stand out from the crowd but I’m not that great of a reader and I didn’t really enjoy it.’

‘But you’re working in television now, not in front of a classroom.’

Elizabeth hummed. ‘Lucky me!’

‘You don’t like it?’

‘Oh no, I do. But I want to be a journalist. I just need to bide my time, I suppose. Put in the hard yards and show I’m keen. Swap to a Master of Media Practice. I’ve looked into this course more thoroughly than I did English Studies, and I think I’d actually enjoy it. I’ve considered moving to a regional area and spending a while there as a reporter, but there’s no guarantee I’ll get promoted and every chance I’ll be stuck somewhere like Meryton for the rest of my days.’

‘Meryton?’

‘Where I grew up. It’s a small town out in the sticks, about four hours from Brisbane. It’s mostly cattle country. Nothing exciting ever happens there.’

‘Seems like a risky move.’

She nodded, and tucked a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. ‘Yep, so it’s breakfast television until I get sick of it. And honestly, I don’t know how many times I can do _Australia’s hottest suburbs! Where to buy NOW! _Or _The hidden killer in your home. _Swap it out for mould, or cleaning products, or food preservatives, or those freaky little creatures that live in your pillow - you know the ones I’m talking about? Yeah? Oh good, the message is getting out there. You can laugh all you want but I’m serious. This is what I deal with. And I haven’t even mentioned a personal favourite: _How to lose the winter weight without exercising! _Like it’s that simple! And of course it’s not, because we’ll run a segment on weight loss exercises the following week.Just dust it off with a new sponsor, use music that’s charting, update the stock images, slot in a few pop culture side references and _voila. _ Done. Eat, sleep, produce, repeat.’

Darcy laughed. ‘It sounds like you’re well shot of it, already.’

‘I am, but I’m not. Some days it’s enough. And it’s not like every day is spent on filler pieces or on sponsors. Some days we cover stories that matter. It’s just -’ here she let out a frustrated huff and shrugged ‘- it’s the nature of the beast. It’s light, unless a major incident happens. Everything is sensationalised and hyped up just to get a response from people. And while I’m here, most of my days are spent tracking the royal family, or pretending I understand what the hell is happening with Brexit. _You _don’t understand it, do you?’ William shook his head and gave her a twisted smile. ‘No? That’s a shame. So yeah, it’s the royals, or Brexit, or whatever movie is being released or band is touring. There’s sports, like the cricket and tennis, obviously, but I want _more _than this - this light and fluffy, popcorn television.’

Darcy nodded, and they kept walking. Elizabeth felt she’d said too much on little invitation, and was unnecessarily negative. 

‘I sound ungrateful, don’t I? Here I am, working in London and living the life so many journalism grads would kill for, and I’m whinging about it not being enough.’

‘I won’t pretend to understand your situation, but I can appreciate the sentiment. There was a time when I wasn’t playing to my potential, and I struggled coming out of Juniors. _That _was never given much air time, I noticed.’

‘Have you considered that maybe, just _maybe_, it’s because you don’t let people know it? Trying to meaningful responses out of you is like getting blood out of a stone. You don’t give _anything _away.’ 

She smiled as she said it, to show she wasn’t taking a dig at him, but he paused and eyed her thoughtfully.

‘My relationship with my father wasn’t at its best when I turned pro. We didn’t see eye to eye about my management, my schedule … we argued over everything and anything, really. We dealt with it eventually, of course.’ William buried his hands in his pockets and huffed. ‘I, er, I trust that won’t become a rolling headline on your show?’

One of Elizabeth’s eyebrows arched of its own accord. ‘If I wanted to splash your private affairs across the news, I could have done so long before now. You would’ve had a hard time denying anything given that I had it all written in your hand.’

Darcy, instead of being assuaged, laughed. ‘Point taken. I will admit that I spent a few anxious days checking the news, wondering if I’d made a stupid mistake.’

‘Why’d you do it, then? I’ll be honest, I was surprised you’d confess so much to someone in my position. It was a brave move.’

They’d ascended King Henry’s Mound, their purpose in walking through that part of the park. Elizabeth had read about the telescope, and William had said he didn’t care one way or the other if he saw it again. 

Darcy turned his back on the view towards St Paul’s and looked at her, unflinching. 

‘At first, it was to clear my conscience and my name. I had no intention of ever speaking with you again, but I would tell you just how and why you were wrong about me, about Joshua, about my sister. And I regretted it. All of it. I was so angry with you and it showed. I’d wanted to change your mind but nothing in that letter would have made you think any better of _me_. By the time I calmed down, it was too late to undo it and so I just hoped - I actually sent up a quick prayer; a plea, really - that your sense of justice would prevail. I didn’t think you would be malicious, so I hoped that you would do the right thing by Georgiana, if nothing else.’

‘A person I’d never met,’ she said softly.

‘Yes.’ 

He was uncomfortable, and while she knew it was within her power to alleviate his discomfort, she couldn’t let the subject drop.

‘I felt sorry for your sister, being used by someone she trusted. I never considered airing it. No amount of personal gain would’ve made it right.’

‘She’s better now.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Elizabeth turned her eyes to the bored out section of trees, where she knew St Paul’s would be standing in the distance, but her attention remained on William. ‘You speak of my sense of justice …’

‘Yes?’

‘I’d shown you very little evidence of it. No compassion, no friendship, not much of anything, actually. How could you have known that about me?’

‘I’d spent a fair amount of time watching you and listening to your conversations. I know, _I know_ … it was creepy of me to do it, but I convinced myself that because I wasn’t going to act on it, it wasn’t harmful behaviour. Of course it was, and I apologise for that.’

‘I knew you looked at me a lot, but I thought it was because you hated me.’

‘Far from it.’

‘And I’m glad to hear that, too!’ She tried to smile, but he still looked too serious.

‘I believed I understood you, then. While I was wrong about many things, I wasn’t wrong about you being a good person.’

‘I think you knew me better than I knew myself.’ Feeling the conversation to have run its course, Elizabeth decided to lighten the tone of their exchange. ‘And maybe, potentially, _possibly … _I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to admit to everyone just how wrong I’d been about you.’

William sighed, apparently relieved to leave the heavy topics behind, and smiled. ‘Of course. Can’t have that.’

‘Of course,’ she repeated, grinning in reply. ‘Now … Richmond Park is nice and this is a pretty view, but did we really just walk all this way to squint through a telescope to see a building I could be standing in front of?’

William let loose a loud laugh, and took in the view of the Thames Valley. It was one of those surreal moments she’d probably look back on in her dotage and wonder if it’d really happened. She pulled out her mobile and took a quick photo of his silhouette against the lush backdrop.

_Proof that it happened_, she told herself. _That’s all._

Richmond Park had been his idea; he’d asked if she’d wanted to see the deer (of course she did, but of course there were no deer to be found). She was surprised Darcy had picked the park. She thought somewhere closer to the glitz and glamour would have suited him better. But then again, it was quieter here than at Kensington Park. They’d already visited Hyde Park and Holland Park. He seemed to have a thing for parks. At this rate, by the time she flew home she suspected she’d have been to every major park in the Greater London area. 

‘Why all the parks?’ she asked suddenly. ‘I know you’re a self-confessed nature nut, but there are other places to go in London.’

He coloured, and coughed. ‘I’ve never called myself a “nature nut”.’

She freely admitted they were her words. ‘But the point remains. So …?’

‘I tend not to get approached so much in parks, as on the street.’

She decided to tease him out of his embarrassment. ‘Oh to be famous and having to constantly dodge one’s adoring fans and paparazzi!’

William shook his head. ‘No paparazzi, not really. I get the occasional photo show up, but they grew tired of me very quickly. And the novelty of a Brit who could actually play tennis wore off quickly thanks to Andy.’

‘When do you reckon you’ll get knighted?’

‘Oh, please.’

‘Hey! Don’t roll your eyes. I’m just saying that an OBE won’t be enough, now. You’ll need a knighthood, too. So, get to work on that ranking, eh? You’ve already got the charity efforts covered and you’re all about equality in the sport, so get inside the top five already. Don’t let Murray outshine you for too long.’

‘Nothing else will satisfy you, will it?’

She grinned, large and wide. ‘I want the best for my friends, naturally.’ 

William laughed in return, and said, ‘I’m glad I managed to improve your mood, but I make no promises about titles or knighthoods, or what have you.’

It didn’t escape her notice that he let the friendship comment slip. She’d given him an opening and he’d either ignored it, or missed it altogether.

‘A pity, that.’


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_29 June 2018  
Bayswater, London_

It was 3am and Elizabeth had just finished work. It’d been a long day. An exceptionally long day. Prince William was on an official visit to Israel, the first by a senior royal, and the executive producer back home was frothing over it. Live crosses every half an hour on _Mornings _and its follow on talk show. Six and half hours on-air. She would’ve passed as an extra on the set of _The Walking Dead_, the way she looked.

She pulled out her phone and smiled when she saw a text from William. Evidently, he’d caught some of the show. _Is everyone in Australia obsessed with the royals or just your show?_

She was formulating a fun but flirty reply when her phone rang.

‘Jane! This is a surprise!’

‘Elle, hi! I hoped you’d be awake. I checked on Instagram to see when you were last active.’

‘It’s far too easy to stalk people these days,’ Elizabeth grumbled light-heartedly. ‘I’m on my way back home. It was a stupidly hectic day.’

‘I won’t keep you long, I just had to tell you,’ gushed Jane, her words tumbling over each other. ‘I’m coming to London … I’m heading to the airport right now!’

‘What? Why? What changed? I thought you couldn’t get leave?’

‘John came up with an alternative! He wants me to work in the London office for a while to observe how they do things, and he wants me there before Fashion Week. So, not quite the holiday I’d planned but I’ll still get to see you! What’s the weather like? I’ve packed for an all-weather apocalypse, but I’ve heard there’s a heat wave …’

Jane’s excitement was contagious. 

Elizabeth laughed, delirious and exhausted. ‘Yeah, it’s hot. Hotter indoors than outdoors, actually. I don’t think I’ve spent so much time in parks since, well, ever.’

Elizabeth conveniently left out the main reason for her frequent jaunts through London parks and mews (and the hilarious trip down the Thames in a hot tug with Team Darcy - admittedly, Carrie hadn’t been impressed that Elizabeth had joined them and made sure Elizabeth wasn’t in any of the pictures posted to Instagram). She kept chatting to Jane, making plans and navigating her way back to the converted terrace house.

‘I’ll tell the others to expect you, but most of them are off on assignment at the moment. Mary Bentley is due back tomorrow but she’s harmless. Spends most of her time in her room watching historical documentaries.’

* * *

_Aorangi Park Practice Courts, London_

‘I don’t pretend to be an expert at tennis.’

‘Neither do I.’

How had she missed his sense of humour? He wasn’t the stiff upper lip, salute the flag, all hail the Queen, crusty Pom she’d suspected. He was quick and clever with a retort, and ready with a smile. She hadn’t seen him around friends too much, but it wasn’t hard to see that he had their loyalty and respect. He was a good person; decent to those he knew. And she’d completely missed it, choosing to focus on how prickly and rude he was around strangers.

She rolled her eyes and smirked. ‘No, you’re a professional.’

‘You’re a fan of the sport in a way I never was.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘For me, it was a life decision that I didn’t have much say in - I felt that I didn’t, at any rate, not with my parents being who they were. I kept at it because I was good at it, and I got better. Now I love it, but it wasn’t always the case. It’s one of the reasons why I wanted Georgiana to choose if this is what she wanted to do with her life.’ 

‘It looks like she made a good choice,’ Elizabeth murmured, watching Georgiana hitting practice shots with Annesley. ‘By the way, this new set up of yours, with Annesley as your coach? How’s that working out when she’s spending more time with Georgiana than she is with you?’

Darcy smiled, and started bouncing a tennis ball on the frame of his racquet. ‘I originally had her in mind as Georgiana’s coach, but once I met Laura I knew I wanted to work with her. She’d been running analytics for me for a little while and she was flagging areas of improvement. I don’t win enough points at the net, for one. I need to make changes to my forehand, as well. Georgiana agreed on the condition that she got to practice with Laura whenever we were all at the one place.’

‘So Annesley was your oh-so secret analytics weapon you just couldn’t mention to me, huh?’

Darcy shrugged. ‘I probably didn’t need to be so secretive about it, but after everything that happened with Joshua I was overcautious about everyone on my team.’

‘When you put it like that, it makes a lot of sense,’ Elizabeth admitted. ‘But you _stole _her from your sister?’

‘On the contrary, I gave Laura a choice.’

‘It appears you’re a very persuasive man, Mr Darcy.’

‘I think you’ll find it depends on the object.’ He gave her a significant look, and she blushed brighter than a sunburnt Brit on a Queensland beach. When she was unable to string together a response, Darcy took pity on her and asked, ‘You once told me you played competitively but you gave it up. Why’s that?’

Surrounded by William and Georgiana, at the practice courts at the Holy Grail of tennis, Elizabeth felt all the absurdity of the question. ‘Strictly as an amateur. I grew up watching tennis with my father. I was seven when he bought me my first racquet. I hassled him until he signed me up for classes with my local club at Meryton. I made it to state competition but didn’t get much further … I realised I wasn’t going to be as good as a lot of the other girls, even if I did practice until I dropped.’

‘You didn’t want it,’ Darcy surmised, and she shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d get to the heart of it without preserving her feelings.

‘You still haven’t figured out how to use that sensitivity filter of yours, have you?’

‘That _was_ rather indelicate of me.’ 

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong.’ She shrugged and gave him a small smile, not at all offended. ‘I just knew that I didn’t have the natural ability the other girls did, as my father liked to point out. Often.’

Will frowned. ‘So you quit?’

Elizabeth nodded, and shrugged again. ‘I figured it would be better for me to find something I was great at, not just middling. Mum was disappointed. She thought it would have set me up for life, but I never would have made it on tour. I do play on occasion, for fun.’

He smiled widely. ‘Fancy a match? A proper one, this time.’

‘What, with you?’ She laughed, sure he was joking. 

‘Who else?’

‘Given how rusty I was the other day, I’ll surely have my arse handed to me but why not?’

She knew they wouldn’t have been able to do it then. Time at the practice courts was strictly controlled; an interloper such as herself would’ve been too much of a distraction. She couldn’t believe she was there to begin with.

They both laughed, and she was sure he held her eye a little longer than necessary. The moment was broken when one of Georgiana’s defensive lobs went wayward. William went to stand opposite Georgiana and Annesley, who peppered him with short and sharp balls in rapid rallies. Elizabeth loitered around the net, watching the balls fly back and forth. 

She hoped Darcy didn’t forget. It’d hurt a little too much to be forgotten by him.

* * *

_30 June 2018  
Victoria, London_

‘Elizabeth Bennet? Hullo, I’m Anne Elliot with Russell Media. Do you have a moment?’

Elizabeth’s tea order had only just been placed in front of her when a short woman suddenly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. Elizabeth hadn’t noticed her in the quiet cafe: she was bland beyond description, and looked as washed out as the faded beige wallpaper.

‘I saw you at the Sotherton the other day,’ Anne continued, settling herself opposite Elizabeth. ‘You have an interesting way of dealing with people. Maria Rushworth can be difficult.’

Elizabeth stirred sugar into her tea, carefully placing the used spoon on the saucer. Elizabeth didn’t know what to make of this woman; her appearance contradicted her personality. Honesty seemed the best way forward. ‘She wanted something from me, and I wasn’t going to give it to her without getting what I wanted in exchange.’

‘Ordinarily, I wouldn’t care what the likes of the Rushworths were up to. I see enough of that sort every day, but a mutual friend of ours suggested I might like to see you in action. Jack Fitzwilliam has told me about you.’

‘Knowing Jack, you could probably disregard most of it.’

‘You’re a jack of all trades producer looking for an opportunity to prove yourself as a reporter.’

‘Huh. He said that?’

Anne Elliot stood and adjusted the strap of her handbag. ‘I’m looking for presenters on a pet project of mine, about veterans’ affairs and support for them and their families. If you’re interested in auditioning, here’s my card.’ She smiled, and added, ‘We’re in pre-production and start filming in September. Don’t wait too long to let me know.’

Elizabeth watched Anne leave, turning Anne’s business card over in her fingers. She would do a little digging on Russell Media but she was inclined to think it was a legitimate business if Jack was involved. A smile spread from ear to ear as she sank into her chair. She wouldn’t count her chickens before they hatched, but she couldn’t wait to tell William.

* * *

‘Elizabeth!’

Elizabeth almost dropped her coffee in shock. Carrie walked towards her, a pleasant smile in place as she approached looking like she’d just left a photoshoot for Burberry. Elizabeth, about to start work, was conscious of her functional jeans and lace-up plimsoles. She never knew when she’d need to leg it somewhere for a live cross.

‘Hello Carrie.’

‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’

The small talk and pleasantries belied a strained smile, and Elizabeth realised with a start that Carrie must have been waiting for her. Elizabeth edged towards the entrance of the offices of the European bureau. Her optimism following her unexpected meeting with Anne Elliot dwindled and she felt herself grow wary.

‘I’m glad to have stumbled upon you, actually. I’d like to talk to you for a moment.’

‘I’m just on my way to work.’

‘Yes, I know. This won’t take long.’

Resigned, Elizabeth nodded. Whatever Carrie had to say, Elizabeth didn’t want it to be said out front of her work. She was already fielding questions from overly-curious colleagues about her friendship with Darcy. ‘Shall we take a walk?’

They’d only walked half a block before it started.

‘You must have known this conversation was coming,’ Carrie began vaguely. At Elizabeth’s blank look, Carrie continued, ‘I had to talk Catherine out of doing it, to be honest. She’s watched this fascination of his unfold from the sidelines and she thinks it’s time it came to an end.’

‘Look, if this is some weird “you’d better keep away from him”, Hollywood rom-com conversation, you can forget it. I don’t need to justify my friendships to anyone.’

Carrie’s trademark brittle smile returned, complete with a squaring of the shoulders and raising of the chin. ‘Funny you should mention Hollywood. I had to tell Catherine that we weren’t in an Audrey Hepburn movie. She was ready to ship you back to Australia with a sound tongue lashing about how you’ve insinuated yourself into William’s private affairs, desperate for the WAGs lifestyle.’

Elizabeth stopped walking and huffed in annoyance. ‘Then it appears Catherine is making a lot of assumptions about me _and _the kind of relationship I have with Will.’

‘My concern about William’s relationships is the impact they have on his brand.’

‘My private affairs are my own. I don’t answer to anyone, much less William’s PR manager.’

‘I see you’ve caught my meaning. Good. That will save me trying to delicately phrase this. I neither know nor care what kind of person you are. Whether you like to admit it or not, you’re not good for his image. You could not begin to fathom the deals I’m working on for him, and it could all be for nothing if it gets out he’s with a wannabe journalist always on the hunt for a story. It’s not a sound investment, so it’s in William’s best interests that you stay away from him. This is his future, and we need to be careful about what is put out there to the public.’

‘I thought Jack was his agent?’ 

‘It’s Team Darcy.’ She waved a hand dismissively. ‘Look, you’ve already caused waves that I’ve had to smooth over. It’s apparent William won’t do anything about this situation, so it’s left to me to be the voice of reason.’

Elizabeth was momentarily stunned. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? 

Carrie adjusted her watch, glancing at the time and grimacing. ‘I don’t have time to continue on with this redundant conversation, and I certainly won’t be divulging sensitive commercial matters to you. William is due to attend a players’ dinner in little more than two hours. I need you to agree that you’ll take a step back and stop associating with William.’

Elizabeth laughed, unable to stop herself. ‘This did get very Hollywood, very quick.’

‘Your word, please.’ 

Carrie was adamant, and her pious attitude caused Elizabeth to respond more sharply than she intended.

‘You’re mad, do you know that? Who do you think you are to issue demands? I’m not your servant, and you’re deluded if you think Darcy’s incapable of making decisions for himself.’

Carrie’s lips twisted in a poor impression of a smile. She looked pained. ‘Of course he can make decisions, but he _does _employ me to manage his image and I take it seriously. Sometimes that involves tidying up his messes. I can’t keep buying up photos of you with him just to keep this quiet.’

‘Let me be perfectly clear, then: what Will and I do is up to us, and it has absolutely nothing to do with you. We don’t need your approval.’

‘You’re determined to ruin his chances. He could be the next Agassi or Sampras, the next _Federer_, and you’d only get in the way of that.’

‘I’m determined to live my life on my terms, and I’m sure Will feels the same way.’

‘Very well. I see you can’t accept well meaning advice. Just know that anything that happens now, you’ve brought on yourself.’

Carrie turned on her heel and walked off, leaving Elizabeth feeling annoyed and confused.

* * *

_1 July 2018  
Wimbledon Championships, London _

Elizabeth got it: there was a heatwave. It was hot for London standards, but it was nothing to what she endured every summer back home. Elizabeth tried not to smirk at the sight of so many Brits fanning themselves with programmes, faces flushed and sweat beading on foreheads. Still, there was that undeniable charge in the air: Wimbledon was upon them. She’d likened it to first day of school jitters when she was working at the Australian Open - now, it was all excitement.

Elizabeth made her way to Autograph Island and patiently waited her turn, chatting with others in the queue and mindlessly playing with the tennis ball she held. Already she’d collected signatures from Alexander Zverev and Ash Barty. Tomorrow she’d line up for Madison Keys and Elinor Dashwood.

A middle aged man with two eager faced kids stood in line behind her. They were giggling and giddy, their little knees jiggling a mile a minute, their energy uncontained. Furious instructions to _just bloody behave, you hear _were being whispered and mostly ignored as the kids came to people’s attention. The man caught Elizabeth’s eye and grimaced, offering a weak apology. 

‘It’s fine, really,’ she said, her spirits high. ‘I think I was more excited when I met Kim Clijsters around their age.’

The man waved the day’s schedule in front of his face like a fan. ‘Collecting everyone’s John Hancock, or is Darcy your favourite?’

Elizabeth smiled as she stepped forward, now at the front of the queue. ‘Murray was my favourite Brit for a long time, but I think Darcy might have the edge of late. He still has a way to go before he reaches Federer levels of adoration, though.’

The man gave her a good humoured grin and pushed his straw fedora off his forehead. ‘Been watching Darcy for years now. Glad he’s back, we might start winning again, what with all of Murray’s injuries and that. Darcy’s a good lad, too. Does lots of work with the LTA and kids’ programs, fundraising for clubs and all. Does it all quiet like, too. Our club’s put in a request for him to visit when we open the new clubhouse. Finally got enough funds together to build one. Hopefully he’ll get time after the US Open. Haven’t told the kids, of course. Don’t want them to get too excited in case we can’t pull it off.’

Elizabeth smiled, unsure how to respond. She knew Darcy did some work with underprivileged kids and his scholarship program, and there were his mentoring visits to Fitzwilliam Academy, but she’d never heard anything about the fundraising for local clubs.

‘Next!’

Elizabeth walked over to Darcy with a grin on her face and produced her tennis ball with the Matlock Club’s logo.

‘And here I was, expecting it to be one of Roger’s.’

‘He has those?’ Elizabeth asked excitedly, her eyes bright. ‘Do you know where I can get one?’

Darcy just laughed and signed the ball. She took it from his outstretched hand. ‘Making friends in line?’ he asked.

‘They’re big fans of yours, according to the dad.’

Darcy looked around her to the man and his children. ‘That’s Peter Reynolds. He works with the LTA on development programs in Chesterfield.’

‘Which is where?’

‘Derbyshire. Near where I grew up,’ he added.

‘That might explain why he thinks highly of you.’

Darcy had no response, but Elizabeth thought he might have been blushing under that tan. ‘I should be finished here by half-four. Do you and Jane have plans for this evening?’

‘Smooth change of topic, real subtle. But no, we don’t have any plans. Not _yet_.’

His invitation was in his smile. She couldn’t help but grin back at him.

* * *

_Soho, London_

It was hot and loud in the lounge, but that didn’t stop them sitting close, their heads bent towards each other.

He was drinking his customary soda water but had spruced it up with a twist of lime. She was drinking a delicious rosé that was popping with raspberries and cherries, and some other taste she couldn’t place. 

‘I’ll have to keep drinking, purely for investigative purposes.’

‘Should I go buy the bottle, to aid in this important journalistic endeavour?’

‘One glass is enough, thank you. I don’t want to lose my head.’

His face was so close. ‘You don’t seem the type to lose your head.’

‘That’s a very gracious lie, especially from you. I’ve known you for, what? Six months? Yes? And already you’ve seen me go off the deep end and do or say something stupid more times than I care to admit.’

She smiled, but he frowned. ‘You don’t have to tell me,’ William started, clearly unsure about his next words, ‘but what happened with Wickham? In Melbourne. After I left.’

‘He was knocked out of the doubles and I saw him briefly before he flew out. It was a weird conversation, and after I read your letter I realised his game. He thought I was his ticket to an easy ride with the network.’

‘Was it ever … well, did you and he -?’

Elizabeth pulled back, the better to see his face. Her first instinct was to give an emphatic ‘NO!’ in response, but she didn’t. She paused, took a breath, and asked, ‘Would it matter?’

William looked surprised. He probably hadn’t expected his question to be deflected like that, but she wanted to know that if he was interested (and she thought he was), whether it was conditional.

It didn’t take long for him to shake his head. ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

Elizabeth grinned and took another sip of her wine. ‘Butter! That’s it! It’s buttery.’

Darcy plucked the glass from her hand and took a quick mouthful. ‘You’ve good taste.’

She leaned towards him again, making sure that he was looking at her. ‘I like to think so.’

* * *

_2 July 2018  
Bayswater, London_

Elizabeth was somewhat used to her phone ringing at random times and quite insistently. It was part of the hustle and bustle of working in news television. What she was not used to, was her Facebook and Instagram notifications constantly pinging with follow requests, comments, and likes, or her inbox sounding off with messages and emails alike.

Confused and bemused, Elizabeth opened a text from her mother: _y didnt u yell me avout ur hot ruch new man n y am i always last to kjow??/?_

Elizabeth cringed. Her mother’s typos, largely thanks to her long acrylic fingernails, were a constant source of frustration for Elizabeth. She often had to decipher the messages, but there was no mistaking it this time. 

Next was a text from Eddie Gardiner, wanting to know if she’d taken leave of her senses and whether she had compromised her ethics in following a story. 

Then, a text from Charlotte. Several, in fact. All laden with emojis, all declaring she’d known all along Darcy was interested but demanding to know when Elizabeth’s feelings had changed. _You OWE me for your London stint, you realise? I made it happen!! YOU (clapping hands) OWE (clapping hands) ME!! (clapping hands)_

Figuring that she’d get the most direct response from Charlotte, she fired back a quick text (_WTBF are you on about?). _As predicted, the response was immediate and offered a link to an article posted by Fashion Forward, that had evidently been picked up by other outlets.

Her ears rang, her mouth ran dry, her hands shook.

‘No! No, no, _NO!_ JANE! What _is _this?’

Elizabeth barrelled down the hall back to her bedroom, calling out for Jane to wake up. Jane sat up in the bed, bleary eyed and yawning. ‘Good morning, ’Lizbeth. What’s what?'

Elizabeth thrust her phone under Jane’s nose, fuming. ‘How is it that _your _magazine thinks I’m dating Will?’

Jane frowned, and Elizabeth knew that her sister wasn’t behind the story. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. I haven’t spoken to anyone about you.’

Elizabeth couldn’t keep the scathing sarcasm from her voice as she read aloud: ‘“For years, the notoriously private William Darcy has kept us guessing about his love life but now, sources close to the tennis star have revealed he has finally met The One. Not much is known about the lucky lady who has been popping up in photos with the tennis star, but we can exclusively reveal her name is Elizabeth Bennet - and she’s a homegrown girl! 

“Video obtained by Fashion Forward shows the pair in London, getting close and cozy at a Soho restaurant known for its Australian fare - no doubt a nod to Darcy’s lady love. 

“Our reporter understands that the hot new couple met over the Australian summer. The relationship was supposed to be fun and flirty but things hotted up quickly, so much so that Elizabeth resigned from her position as a producer for the Channel Four _Mornings _program to travel the globe with Darcy. The WAGs of the tennis world have fresh blood in their ranks, and not everyone is happy about it. 

“It’s been a closely guarded secret that the Darcy camp has tried to downplay any romantic relationship between the pair, fearing it would serve as a distraction to Darcy and materially damage his rising profile. A well placed source with Tennis Australia has revealed that Darcy’s aunt and tennis bureaucracy powerhouse, Catherine Bourke, doesn’t approve of the couple and wants Elizabeth gone, but the pictures do not lie: it’s a love game for Darcy.” _Honestly_, who writes this rubbish? A “love game”?’

‘Elle, I’m so sorry.’

‘It’s hardly your fault.’

‘Actually, I think it could be ...’ Jane’s voice was low and soft, her eyes downcast. ‘I took a Facetime call from my boss while you and William were talking, and Charlie was at the bar … they must have seen you. I thought it was strange. It would’ve been before dawn back home, but he said it needed to be a video conference so his managing editor could see me in person. That part didn’t seem weird at the time. John says he has to look people in the eye when talking to them.’

Elizabeth had noticed Jane taking a call, and felt it wasn’t rude to turn all of her attention to Darcy. She could’ve pretended that the restaurant had been noisy and she’d needed to lean close to William to hear him, but the truth was she’d used any flimsy excuse to get nearer to him the whole night. She thought it had worked, that she’d conveyed her message and it’d been favourably received … but with Jane and Charles there, and Jack making a late appearance, they hadn’t managed any other quiet moments. And now … who knew what this might do to a possible, potential, not yet established relationship? 

‘I suppose we know why you suddenly got the call up for the London gig.’

‘If that is the case, if John - John Thorpe, he’s the managing editor - if he knew anything about it, he would have known before I got on the plane. It doesn’t seem very likely.’

‘Carrie said she’d been buying up photos so clearly people knew about them,’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘And I thought she was just being dramatic!’

‘Who is Carrie?’

‘Charlie’s sister. Don’t worry, they’re nothing alike.’

Jane coloured. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You keep telling yourself that, Jane.’

Jane changed the topic. ‘What are you going to do about the photos?’

‘There’s nothing I can do. I’ll just talk to William …’

Elizabeth’s uncertainty showed. 

Jane smiled sympathetically. ‘Good luck.’

* * *

‘Will! Hi! I’m glad you answered.’

Elizabeth was in her bedroom, nervously pacing the short path between her dresser and the window. She tried not to sound breathless or jittery. She didn’t want her nerves to betray her.

‘I was going to call you later.’

‘Yes?’

‘Am I right in thinking that the pictures were as much of a surprise to you as they were to me?’

Attempting levity, Elizabeth chirped, ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so in demand before.’

There was a slight pause, and he spoke softly. ‘You sound pleased.’

‘What?’

‘I was told you wanted public exposure -’

‘No, I’ve never wanted that!’ she said in a hurry, her words rushing over each other.

‘- to further your career … and to shop around a story.’

She was breathless now. Deflated. ‘Do you really believe that?’

Quiet voices floated down the line, and there was a scratching noise before William’s voice became muffled. She made out the words ‘go on, I’ll be with you soon.’ He was going to dismiss her, just like that. She swallowed bitter disappointment. ‘Elizabeth, I can’t talk right now. I’m in a meeting.’

‘Oh, right. Of course, busy man.’

‘May I call you later?’

Except, he didn’t call back. Her throat burned with a sob. She refused to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to Rosie J. for the Audrey Hepburn line. It was a perfect way to describe what was to follow ...


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_2 July 2018  
Matlock Club, London_

Jane had encouraged her to see him and speak to him, convinced there was more to the story than William ghosting her. ‘And can you be ghosted in less than a day?’ Jane mused. ‘Is there a minimum timeframe, do you think?’

Elizabeth huffed, until she realised that Jane was clutching her mobile and staring at it, her expression tense.

‘Surely it’s got to be more than a day,’ said Elizabeth, injecting false optimism into her voice and wondering what it was about Englishmen who left them guessing. ‘Especially when they’re both really busy with Wimbledon.’

Elizabeth knew that William had a meeting at Matlock Club with a potential sponsor. He’d told her as much. She also knew he was scheduled to practice at Matlock that evening so she made her way to the private club, hoping that her brief journey on the Underground wouldn’t leave her skirt rumpled. Elizabeth walked towards the imposing glass doors on wobbly legs. She was unsure if she would be permitted entrance … especially now, and without Darcy beside her.

_Fake it til you make it_, Elizabeth chanted in her head, and smiled at Dawson as she sailed in.

‘Good evening, Ms Bennet.’

Ever the professional, Dawson betrayed nothing but positioned himself so as to halt Elizabeth’s progress. He was as cool as the proverbial cucumber served in crustless finger sandwiches. Frustrating man.

‘Good evening, Dawson,’ replied Elizabeth, undaunted. ‘I’m here to see Will. You don’t happen to know where he is, do you?’

‘I believe Mr Darcy is engaged. May I deliver to him a message on your behalf?’

Swotty, snotty, snooty man. Over the course of the week, he was all politeness. He couldn’t have done more for her, now he was stonewalling her. Carrie had obviously turned his head. Catherine probably had more than a few choice words to say about her as well, the old bat. It made Elizabeth feel even more flustered, but she called to mind that she hadn’t done anything wrong. She hadn’t lied to William, and she most definitely _had not _been selling a sham story to the tabloids.

‘Um, no. I’d hoped he would be free so I could talk to him myself.’ Dawson made no response, his face bland and devoid of any acknowledgement. Elizabeth’s anger flashed. ‘You know what? Yeah, I do have a message. You can tell him that if he’s going to believe bullshit lies about me, then it’s just as well he has his precious career to fall back on. And tell him that he should’ve just _asked me_ for the truth instead of believing second-hand information from second-rate gossips. You can pass that message on to his miserable, spiteful, two-faced PR manager as well.’

Dawson blinked. ‘Of course.’

Elizabeth stormed out, bursting through the pristine glass doors before the doormen could scurry over to relieve her of the task.

* * *

_Victoria, London_

Elizabeth sat at her desk, staring mindlessly - miserably - at the computer screen, having returned from her fruitless journey to the Matlock Club.

_Bullocks. Utter bullocks!_

‘Heya, Elizabeth. A courier just delivered this for you.’

Elizabeth opened the proffered envelope and extracted a card. Her hands shook; she recognised that handwriting, having received a letter from him once before.

_Dawson relayed the most intriguing message to me this evening, as soon as my meeting with a new sponsor ended. The meeting went much longer than anticipated and at the worst possible time, too. I think I better understand Carrie’s enthusiasm for the meeting now. I wished I could have called you sooner, if only to let you know I was delayed. I hope you’ll understand I wasn’t ignoring you, and that I have checked my entitlement (I believe that’s the phrase you recently used). _

_I’m sorry if I gave the impression that I believed you’d pitched a story to your supervisors about us. I didn’t, and I still don’t. If you had, it wouldn’t have first appeared on a rival outlet. _

_I’ve also spoken with my ‘miserable, spiteful, two-faced PR manager’ and sorted through a few concerns she, not I, had. Suffice to say, her position description has been reviewed and curtailed._

_I’m giving you a pass to my match tomorrow. I want you to attend, and for us to clear the air. I thought we’d made progress. Your conversation with Carrie gave me hope … but perhaps I’m hoping for too much once more. _

_Excuse the pun, but the ball is in your court - one comment from you and I’ll leave you be. _

Her mind worked furiously, her heart was getting carried away, and all she could process through the buzzing noise in her head was that he’d given her a pass to his player box at Centre Court for his match tomorrow.

* * *

_3 July 2018 - the first round (day two)  
Wimbledon Championships, London_

She took particular care with her hair and make up, knowing that her appearance would, as Carrie phrased it, _make waves_. Her outfit was an easy decision, but she’d triple checked there were no stray threads or tags on show.

Elizabeth knew she was in the right place when she spotted the cult figure that was David Spearing, replete with his trademark black Stetson hat and immaculately trimmed goatee. He noticed her clutching at her pass, and tipped his hat.

‘You must be Elizabeth Bennet.’

‘That’s me! It’s a pleasure to meet you, the Man in the Hat,’ Elizabeth grinned. ‘Also known as the man with the best seat in the house.’

‘Ah, thank you ma’am, but the best seats are in the Royal Box.’

‘Perhaps, but it was _your _seat I’d eye off, green with envy, when watching from home.’

It wasn’t an outright lie. Of course she coveted the Royal Box, but she wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. It was a side perk from what she hoped for - or, rather, what she _expected_, if she was being completely honest with herself.

‘Right this way then, Miss Bennet.’

* * *

‘William Darcy is on court warming up and let me just say, he is in _terrific _form leading up to this event. Semi-finalist at Queen’s, and Britain’s most successful Davis Cup player this year despite the team being relegated to the world group play-offs. Not the best of showings at Roland Garros but making it to the fourth round was a career best for him. He’s had a remarkable turn around since that dismal quarter final in Melbourne, and a straight sets defeat in Indian Wells. It’s as if he’s put a line underneath the first few months of the year and come home with a fresh outlook, a fresh attitude, and it’s shown in his ranking, too. Ranked eleventh in the world, seeded ninth here at SW19. He’s the odds-on favourite to win today, and I’m excited to see what he can do in front of his home crowd.’

‘All well and good Knightley. Brilliant recitation of your notes, you almost made it sound like we know what we’re talking about!’

‘I used to play tennis professionally, Emma. I _do _know what I’m talking about.’

‘Of course, but that was years ago! Although I don’t blame you for keeping tabs on the tour, with all these fit men and women running around, living their best lives. I have to say, meeting Darcy back in May completely changed my opinion of him. I quite like him, truth be told.’

‘You like attractive men so that’s hardly a surprise.’

‘I’ll ignore that. Now, the players are warming up and the crowd is settling in, so let’s take a moment to scan the stands and report on the Who’s Who. We’re told not to expect the Duchess of Cambridge, patron of the All England Tennis Club. Unfortunate but not unexpected, given that she is on maternity leave.’

‘We’re here for the _tennis_, Emma; not to provide an entertainment report.’

‘Indeed we are, Knightley! I read the brief just as you surely did, but the tennis is yet to actually start. And when, may I ask, have we ever stuck to the script?’

‘You make it rather difficult, most days.’

‘Variety is the spice of life, my dear friend! Betting agencies have opened their books on whether Meghan Markle, as was, will make an appearance in place of Kate. It’s not inconceivable, of course, but if _I _were recently married to Prince Harry - or, excuse me, the Duke of Sussex - I’d be more agreeably engaged.’

‘Emma! Let’s keep this above board.’

‘Oh, now this is _interesting. _Look at the crew in William Darcy’s player box!’

‘Must you exaggerate? You’re the only person who has noticed anything happening.’

‘Nonsense! Just because _you _pretend that entertainment is beneath you doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t interested. Back to it: Catherine Bourke is sitting alongside Darcy’s manager, Jack Fitzwilliam – former captain of the British Army and immediate past deputy of player development with the Rosings Academy, now referring to himself as being at Darcy’s beck and call – but Ms Bourke is _not _impressed to be joined by the mysterious woman we’ve seen out and about with Darcy during the last couple of weeks.

‘For those who don’t know but surely care, Catherine recently resigned from her role with Tennis Australia to return home to Mother England. No word on _why _she left the lucrative posting in the land Down Under but one imagines she is not impressed with the announcement that Laura Annesley will be Darcy’s new coach in time for the North American swing. Catherine’s views on females coaching male players are well documented, thanks to the op-ed she wrote a couple of years ago about Amelie Mauresmo coaching Andy Murray.

‘Also of note with the Darcy box is who is _not _there: one Carrie Bingley, the most prolific of the Frequent Flyers. A shame; I really like what she’s been doing with her hair lately. Very on-trend.’

‘Emma, _the tennis_,’ came the curt interjection, ‘if you don’t mind.’

‘Once again, Knightley, I must point out that the tennis hasn’t actually started yet, so until that impeccably dressed gentleman sitting high up on his umpire’s chair calls time, we’ll cover all topics of interest.’

‘The viewers at home are not interested in us bickering over –’

‘Not for nothing but we _are _the best rating duo in the UK, but oh, would you look at that! The Mystery Woman makes an appearance!’

‘She’s hardly the “Mystery Woman” anymore, Emma. We know her name is Elizabeth Bennet.’

‘Fine, do away with the intrigue, you spoil sport. Elizabeth Bennet is taking a seat beside Catherine and one is _not _amused. That is serious side-eye, dear audience.’

‘And now we can return to the tennis, the actual reason we are here. The chair umpire has called time, as the players make their way to -’

‘I don’t think anyone cares about the tennis at this point, Knightley. Certainly not any of the photographers in press gallery, at any rate.’

‘This is unusual. The photographers are … well, they’re _ignoring _the umpire and they’re trying to get close to Darcy’s player box_._’

‘Don’t be so shocked, Knightley. Darcy isn’t doing anything to help matters.’

‘For the benefit of our live stream audience, listening in from all around the world and by podcast –’

‘So _smooth _with the plugs!’

‘Clearly not, if you draw attention to it!’

‘Have you ever thought that we sound like an old, bickering couple?’

‘Darcy is giving the cameras plenty to focus on. He’s just … standing there.’

‘Be more descriptive! Darcy has his racquet in hand, idly passing it from hand to hand, all the while smiling up at his player box. He is rather handsome, isn’t he? Positively dashing in his tennis whites. Three guesses as to what, or rather _who_, he is looking at! Now, _he _is definitely amused.’

‘I wonder why?’

‘Is that a genuine question?’

‘Yes, Emma. I don’t ask rhetorical questions, unlike some people I know.’

‘There she is, the Mystery Woman is now on the big screen. It looks as though the audience is starting to cotton on as to why Darcy is laughing.’

‘I wonder if Darcy’s black humour finds Ms Bennet’s choice of top amusing?’

‘Now _that _is a rhetorical question if I ever heard one!’

‘God only knows why I love you, honestly.’

‘Ha! Wait, you what?’

* * *

‘William Darcy to serve.’ The umpire’s voice was firm and loud, and order was eventually restored to Centre Court. ‘Ready for play.’

Elizabeth’s nerves hadn’t abated as she sat under the glare of the crowd at Centre Court. She’d caught William’s eye a few times, but she couldn’t do much more than smile back at him.

‘Your shirt is … an interesting choice.’ Chatty Cathy failed to live up to her name. Her voice was brittle and clipped, and her lips so pursed Elizabeth wondered if they’d soon detach and parade about as a separate entity. She didn’t glance Elizabeth’s way as she spoke.

‘Yes, I picked it especially for the occasion. Says it all, really.’

‘I will need to direct you more closely on what is appropriate attire, if William is to continue on this path. A cheap t-shirt blaring a crude message is shocking enough, but to pair it with jeans that look to have been painted on is not an image to be associated with William Darcy’s name!’

‘The shirt didn’t set me back much, I’ll admit,’ Elizabeth was all blitheness as she perched her sunglasses atop her head, ‘but William is a fan of these jeans. I think I’ll keep them for the time being.’

Elizabeth heard Charlie laugh, and her benign smile grew into something more sincere when she caught William’s eye. She winked, and her breath hitched when William returned her smile with a fond shake of his head.

‘You are distracting him!’ complained Catherine.

‘Darcy and I have been working on his on-court behaviour,’ Charlie interjected. ‘He felt the need to be calmer, less tense. We also agreed that he might start to live a little off-court as well, and enjoy some freedom. It’ll be to his benefit that he is more relaxed and Laura will only help with that. He might even have some fun along the way.’

Jack added, ‘And if he’s going to be distracted by a shirt that says “no comment” he has no business being on the court. It’d serve him right to lose.’

Catherine looked ready to implode, but with the umpire’s call she held her tongue.

At the second change of ends, Catherine received her food and drink order.

‘How’s the champagne? Chilled to your liking?’ Elizabeth asked, smiling sweetly.

Catherine sniffed her disapproval and took a healthy swallow of her drink. Elizabeth didn’t recall Catherine looking her way again for the duration of the match: Chatty Cathy was finally rendered mute, sitting still as a statue and applauding primly. Jack would lean forward to talk around Catherine, and Charles would ease over any tense moments with a kind word.

Two hours and seven minutes later, Elizabeth rose from her chair with the rest of the crowd and applauded.

‘Game, set, match, Mr Darcy,’ called the umpire. ‘Six-three, seven-five, six-one.’

Elizabeth smiled, pretending not to notice all of the cameras directed her way and ignoring the feeling of unease at being the focus of so many people. She would need to get used to this. She knew she was inviting speculation and investigation into her life. Her hope was that with time, they would tire of her and move on to someone else. She knew how the industry worked. She was often the one digging around for a story, and right now, they were providing the media with plenty of fodder.

She knew, rather than felt, that she was happy with how things had worked out. This initial discomfort would be worth it. There would be adjustments, there would be arguments, there would be frustrations - how could there not be when two people who lived on opposite sides of the world started a relationship? But he would be worth it. She just needed to get to him and let him know how she really felt before any more distractions cropped up.

As they left their seats, Charlie turned to Elizabeth and asked, ‘How long is Jane going to be staying with you? Just out of curiosity ...’

‘She’s here until mid September,’ Elizabeth replied, and matched his furtive look with one of smug satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d like her. You should call her, by the way. Maybe we could double date - what do you think?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! Thanks for reading!
> 
> Follow me on Instagram (@ frankly.written) for more on my works-in-progress and random writer-ly asides.


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